


3:37am

by kyungsjeong



Series: 3:37am [2]
Category: History (Band), K-pop
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 07:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 81,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14232291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyungsjeong/pseuds/kyungsjeong
Summary: Words are complications and this is complicated enough. Actions speak where you fail, and fail, and fail. So you act. (technically complete, but there might be more missing scenes added later on... because I'll likely never get these two out of my system)(already posted on AFF, trying to get everything on the same platform)





	1. 3:37am

**Author's Note:**

> (the chapters in this could be considered as a series of one shots or a complete story, but I'm still not sure how cohesively they fit together, so consider this your warning...)
> 
> Rating: PG/PG13
> 
> Fandom: History
> 
> Pairing: Kyungjeong
> 
> Warnings: second person, my writing style, run-on sentences, abuse of commas, creative liberties related to dorm living and certain non-canon events, some angst, random bouts of intense cheesiness to make up for the angst, sometimes optimistic depiction of fame, too much drinking but how else am I supposed to get these idiots to talk to each other, a bit too far fetched to be considered canon at points, gets more depressing the more you read, can't really be counted as non-au anymore because i keep writing more chapters

(Kyungil POV)

It's been a long day and you're back at your hotel and it's quiet, too quiet, and you should be sleeping but you can't and you decide it's because of your roommate. He's not doing anything, but he's not asleep either. You can tell just from the patterns of his breathing. (You don't read into that.)

You stare at the ceiling because you can't close your eyes, you're not even tired. (Or maybe you're just too emotionally exhausted to sleep.) You glance at the clock on the bedside table that separates you. 3:37am. Four hours until you have to be up and ready for another day. You sigh and throw back the covers, crossing the six feet between the two of you and crawling between the sheets of his bed. He should be surprised, startled by your presence, but he isn't. (You don't read into that either.) 

He rolls over to face you, unspoken words hiding behind his sleep deprived eyes. He wants to say them, even if they're the wrong ones. But you don't need words. You've never needed words. Especially not with him. Words are complications and this is complicated enough. Actions speak where you fail, and fail, and fail. So you act. Just once more, you tell yourself, just one final action. (But you know it'll never be over, even if it really proves to be the last.)

He's not complaining. He'd never complain. This is what he wants, you are what he wants. (Even if you'll never understand why.) You've figured out what he wants and what he needs from you and you supply it. You tell yourself it's for his sake, that it keeps things from getting out of control, that keeping him safe and happy is your job. It's always been your job, of course, it's your job, who could protect him better than you? It's all for him, it has nothing to do with you. If it ever has anything to do with you, then it's surely just a way of ensuring a good night's sleep. (You're not even sure if you're lying to yourself anymore.) 

It gets hazy when the sun rises before the alarms go off and he's still sleeping peacefully, innocently, without a cloud of sadness and confusion and hurt surrounding his features. When his fingers are laced around yours and your lips are in his hair and the clock is ticking, literally counting down the seconds until everything falls apart again. 

It gets worse when the alarms start to blare and he is stirred awake, rolling over to face you, his eyes sleepy and his hair mussed and his smile genuine. (It gets worse because you're the reason he is all of those things at once.) It happens before you have a chance to think about it, before the spell is broken by ringing alarms, those three little words of infinite complication leave your lips before you can stop them. The startled look on his face is the only reminder you need that this is why you don't speak, you only act. (Because it hurts you as much as it hurts him.) All the alarms go off, the ones on your phones, the ones in your heads. You know all too well that someone will be in to fetch you if you don't prove you're awake soon, and you can't have that because this is complicated enough. 

Or is it? It's actions, not words. It's calculated, not spontaneous. It's circumstances, not emotions. It's a solution, not a problem. (Isn't it?) That's the whole truth and nothing but. No one would understand if they knew, but that doesn't make it the wrong choice. It's a secret because it works, because it keep things from getting uncontrolled. 

You turn away, letting go of his hand and reaching for your phone. (You're not at all disappointed when he relents easily.) You can turn off those alarms, but not the ones inside of you. You turn back to look at him. (Your heart doesn't skip even one beat.) You open your mouth, to try to use your words to reverse the complications, to tell him you didn't mean it, that he heard you wrong, but he speaks before you can. "I'll forget it. I know the drill." He gets out of bed and escapes into the bathroom. Maybe you should try to escape too. (There's no escape.) 

Everything's back to normal in an hour when you take the front seat of the van and he gets assigned to the back. Things are only quiet because you're all so tired. Nothing has changed, everything is back to normal. (Never mind the fact that normal has never applied where you're concerned.) Work is work, that's all it is, it's a job, a meal ticket, and you both fulfill your obligations with no complaint. 

It's actions, not words. It's not words when he smiles at you. It's not words when you brush his hand with your own. It's not words when you readjust his bangs or straighten his accessories. It's actions, it's obligations, it's your job and you've always been very good at your job. 

Whenever it starts to look like something else, you tell yourself you're just protecting him. (Whenever it starts to feel like something else, you tell yourself it doesn't count.) All you're doing protecting his job, his happiness, his dreams. You're protecting him from unsavory characters who only wish to use him, who will only hurt him, who don't care about protecting anyone but themselves. People who would turn on him as soon as it suited them. Everything you do, everything you say, everything you don't say is to protect him. All you ever do is protect him. (The problem is, of course, that you have no energy left to protect yourself.) 

He knows that, but he doesn't appreciate it. "I'm not a child, I don't need to be protected," he's said more than once, but this only serves to emphasize to you that the exact opposite is true. You know better than anyone that he's wrong because there was no one there to protect you and that's why you do what you do. Work is work, work is your life, work is exhausting you. (But not as much as he is.)

Returning to the hotel at the end of the day is always the hardest part. You're worn out, you're far from home, your next day off is far in the future and he's right there. He's six feet away again, working furiously on his laptop. He works harder than you. Everyone knows it. You don't know how he holds himself together, how he doesn't give up or pass out or run away. Because you've thought about running more than once. (You're just not sure if you'd be running alone.) 

His hair is hanging over his eyes as he types and his oversized sweater is falling off his shoulder and he's wearing reading glasses and he has the most adorable focused expression you've ever seen and you can't help it, you have to pester him. It's your job. It's how you protect him from working too hard or straining his eyesight or giving up. (It's how you keep him from running without you.) 

You flop onto the end of his bed, he jostles with the mattress, but he doesn't look up. You close his laptop, he glares at you and reopens it. You grab onto his sleeve and pull his hand away from the keyboard, he yanks it from you and returns it. You grab his sleeve again, he pulls it away. You take hold of it once more, tighter this time, he tries to escape your grasp but he can't. Finally, he reaches the breaking point. "Stop it!" he snaps. You let go and he shakes his hair out of his eyes, for the tenth time in a minute. 

You lay down, looking for another tactic, suddenly noticing the holes in his designer jeans. You reach over and poke his knee through one of the rips in the denim. You look up at him, but he doesn't react. You move on to a different tear and then another, moving steadily up his thigh. You slide your pinky finger into one of the holes, making lazy patterns on his skin. He doesn't look up so you decide to try a different approach, using your thumb and pointer finger to pinch at his skin, hard. 

He slams his laptop shut and exclaims, "Do you need something?" You nod, words of complication bubbling up. "Spit it out," he encourages you. You want to say something, but the last time you used your words... you don't want to hurt him like that again, so you don't say anything. "Say something or leave because I still have three hours of work and we have shows tomorrow." You shake your head. "I'm not leaving."

"That doesn't count as saying something," he says. "At least go back to your bed." You stop for a moment before getting up. He looks back at his work, looking back up when you slide the nightstand out from between the beds and up against the opposite wall. "What are you doing?" he asks, but you don't answer. It's not words, it's actions. You step between your bed and the wall and use your hands to push it all the way across the floor, right up against his. He looks at you in disbelief as you get into your bed and take your phone out of your pocket, looking at your missed texts but not actually reading them, your heartbeat racing. (Not because you just rearranged the furniture.)

He clicks around on his computer and you've heard his words but you want actions, so you put down your phone and reach for his sleeve again, pulling it from the keyboard. He looks up in annoyance, ready to say something, but you link your fingers around his tightly and close your eyes. You hear him sigh and close his laptop, laying back on the pillows and wrapping his own hand around yours. You open one of your eyes and see that his are closed, so you close it again. 

Who needs words when you have actions? Who needs complications when this feels so simple? You wait for him to say something but he doesn't, his eyes closed and his hand in yours. (Maybe this is how he protects you.) 

Right now, it doesn't matter that someone could come in and find you. Right now, it doesn't matter that you'll have to put the furniture back later. Right now, it doesn't matter that he should be working or that you should be sleeping. 

Maybe there are words that need to be said, maybe there are words that he needs to hear, maybe you should consider the words he could hear from your friends or your staff or your company, but words are complications and this is so blissfully simple. So you give yourself a few minutes to stop thinking and act and he lets you. 

Words have never done anything for you, but this isn't about you. "I'm sorry," you've told him in your head a thousand times, but you decide to try saying it out loud. You whisper it as first, and he doesn't hear you, so you repeat it louder. You don't see it, but he smiles and reaches over to card his free hand through your hair. "Me too," he replies. You don't know what he has to apologize for, but you nod anyway. He got his words, so you decide it's time for your actions. You wrap a hand around his waist and roll him closer to you. Maybe he should be surprised, but he's not. (Your words surprise him, but your actions never do.) 

Maybe actions don't keep him as safe as you thought. Maybe the only way to keep him safe is to use your words. (But those words are nothing more than lies, so you keep them locked away.)

You should let him get back to work, you should return the texts on your phone, you should protect him by letting him go, but you're not ready for that yet and you've earned five minutes of simplicity. You'll do your job, fulfill your obligations, but they can wait for five minutes. Actions aren't words, words are complications, actions are the only way to protect him. 

(But when you look up at him, his breathing declaring his unconscious state, his face relaxed and genuine, you realize should have been protecting yourself.)


	2. pt. 2

(Kyungil POV)

...  
You wake up the next morning with your arm squished in the gap between the mattresses and your shoulder is sore, but he's already awake and he's smiling at you, and he buries his face in the pillows when you smile back. It's your last day of shows for a while and you both know what that means, but it seems like he's trying to ignore it so you follow his lead. You wrap him in your arms and he snuggles into your chest, you stroke his hair, kiss the top of his head. "Did you sleep okay?" he mumbles against your skin. "Yeah. You?" He nods. "Of course, I always do when we're overseas," he explains, but he really means, when we're together. You can't say you disagree. (You could try, but some lies are too big even for you.)

You reach under the pillows for his phone to check the time, groan when you realize how late it already is, that you're supposed to pack and be on the bus in forty-five minutes. "What's wrong?" You roll onto your back, keeping your arms around him. "It's already 8:45." He sits up, fixing his hair and yawning. "I guess it's time to get up," he tells you and you wish he wasn't so nonchalant about this.

You shower together to save time, but you're not sure how realistic of an option this is because the seconds are ticking away and you know you're running late, but you can't bring yourself to stop. He makes the decision for you, turning the faucet and grabbing you a towel. You frown, he laughs, kisses you quickly. 

"You look happy," you point out, looking at him through the mirror. "I guess I am happy."  _Why,_ you want to ask,  _don't you remember what today means?_  You don't say anything because you don't want to remind him if he's really managed to forget, nod instead and get dressed. "Why... why aren't you?" he says, looking away from you, fixing his hair. "I'm happy," you say, "it's just... I'm gonna miss it."

"Miss hooking up?" he clarifies.  _Miss you, miss getting ready together, miss sleeping next to you,_ you think but you settle for, "Yeah." He looks back at you, making eye contact through the glass. "It's not forever, it's just the pause button," he reminds you. You nod, annoyed because he seems so calm, decide to prove that you still have an effect on him. He doesn't see it coming and he squeaks your name as you pin him between you and the bathroom door, kiss the calm out of him. 

He wasn't prepared at all, and you feel a little bad when you finally break away because he's kind of out of breath, but you can't deny feeling a little pride that you're the reason why. (At times like this, you start to think he deserves better than you.) "We have to go," he whines, but you know he packed his bag before bed last night and you're more than willing to dump your things into your suitcase if it means you can stay here for another minute or five. "I'm not ready to hit pause yet," you explain, hands on his hips, moving in to kiss him again. "Then don't do it at all," he says and you stop, centimeters from his lips. "We have to."

"Why?" You step backward. "Don't ask me that, you know the rules." He nods, looking down at his feet. "Right," he mumbles before opening the door and leaving to finish getting ready. You lean your weight on the bathroom counter, grabbing onto the edge, your knuckles turning white. This is not how you wanted it to go, you just wanted to stall for a few more minutes before leaving to go back to normal, you shouldn't have ruined it yet, not while you still have a few minutes. (Why are you so bad at thinking ahead?)

You finish shaving and gather your things, stuff them into your suitcase, zip it closed, sit down on your bed, realize that he's already pushed them apart, rearranged everything to the way it was last night. It already feels like a dream, and it sucks. "Are you ready?" he asks in your general direction. "Are you?" 

"I've been packed since yesterday," he replies, but you shake your head. "Are you ready to go home?" you say, clarifying your question. "We're going home, it doesn't matter if we're ready." He sits down next to you, reaching for your hand, linking his fingers with yours. "But it's not forever, right? Just... until next time." You nod, and you can't believe how much this is affecting you. He leans over to rest on your shoulder, knowing someone will be up to tell you you're late in a couple minutes. "We should go," you manage to say. He stands up in front of you, still holding your hand. "One more minute," he whispers, leaning forward to kiss you one last time. 

You know it's not the end, not even close, but the fact still remains that it could be and it's getting to you anyway. Your chest feels tight and your throat is closing up and you're not even sure why, but it still hurts. He looks okay, though, smiling as he pulls away and tries to drag you to your feet. "Why do you look so depressed? This isn't the end, I promise."

You can't help it, you kiss him again, just before someone knocks and says, "Meet us in the lobby, time to go." He looks up at you, lets go of your hand, grabs his suitcase. 

Your last shows go well, but he keeps looking at you and smiling and you kind of wish he would stop because it's not helping, but you're glad to see that he seems a lot better off than you. (A little envious, but mostly glad.)

He sits next to you at the airport, browsing the web on his phone, leaning toward you just enough to be in your space without looking suspicious. He doesn't say anything, but you know he knows you're feeling mixed about all of this and he doesn't think avoiding you is the right thing to do. (That's your move, it's never been his.)

He types something on his phone, then leans the screen toward you so you can read it. 'Tell me what to do and I'll do it,' it reads. You take his phone, type back, 'get me a coffee and sit by me on the plane'. It's not the first idea that popped into your head, the one that involves a bathroom stall and your hands all over him, but you know that's a terrible plan and you also know that he needs to do something, anything to help and you don't want to waste an opportunity to make him feel better, even though you feel terrible. He jumps up immediately, in pursuit of coffee, and you slouch in your chair and close your eyes. (Why is his face carved on the inside of your eyelids?)

When he returns, the loudspeaker announces that it's time to board, so you gather your bags and line up with your tickets in hand. You're not sure when he convinced your manager to trade seats with him, but he sits down next to the window in your row, motions for you to sit next to him. You sip your coffee and wait for takeoff, he reaches for your free hand and holds it in his lap, starts to play around with the touchscreen in the seat in front of him. 

Once you're in the air, you're starting to wish this was a longer flight, because the sun is setting out your window and it's lighting up his face and he's laughing at the movie playing on his screen and you're not sure when you fell this hard, you tried not to, but it happened anyway. (You should have tried harder.)

You type on your phone, wave it in front of his face. He reads it, coughs and blushes, and you look at the message on your phone again, satisfied with yourself. 'Mile High Club?' it reads. He pauses his movie, types on his own phone. 'I meant to tell you earlier, but it didn't seem like the right time. If you want to see other people while we're paused, I'm okay.' You read the message, start shaking your head almost instantly, surprising yourself at how much you do not like that idea, but there's something you want to ask before you say no. 'By other people do you mean girls? Or guys?' you type into your phone. He reads the message, hesitating before he types back, 'Either one.'

'Are you going to? See other guys?' He shakes his head. 'Me neither,' you reply. 'Okay, but I won't be upset if you do.' 

"I won't," you say, out loud. I don't want to, you add silently. He looks relieved, and you're glad. For a second there, you really thought he was ready to move on and see other people. (Why are you so opposed to that idea?) He presses play on his movie again, leaning back in his seat.  You try to focus on the book you've been trying to read for months, but it's not working and he keeps giggling and you can't really care about things that aren't him at the moment, so you put your book back in your bag and take one of his headphones from his ear, put it in your own, lean closer to him so you can see the screen, rest your hand on top of both of his. You look at him when he's focused on the movie, he looks at you when you look away. 

The Captain announces that the plane will be landing in 20 minutes and it starts to sink in, it's really ending again, you want to say something, you want to do something, you want to make it stop. The walls are closing in and he turns off his screen, puts your tray back in its upright, locked position, he's so good at following all the rules, but you hate the rules that you have between you, you want to make them stop applying, you just want everything to stop. 

The people across the aisle are still asleep, the people in front and behind you don't look like they could possibly have any idea who you are, they're not paying you any attention anyway, so you think screw it and you lean over to kiss him, count to five (or was it ten?), pull away. 

He looks shocked and you're glad because you needed him to stop being rational for a minute, it's frustrating how stable he is, how consistent, how reliable. He's supposed to be a mess like you, he's young and he's supposed to really like you and you're supposed to be the one with the power to throw him off, not the other way around. 

"What was that for?" he whispers. "We're not home until this plane lands," you whisper back, and it doesn't exactly seem like a good enough reason, but you can't take it back now. He reaches for your hand, holds it tightly. "You know I don't really like landings, right?" he says, looking up at you. You nod, because you do know that about him, and it isn't just an excuse to keep holding on until the last possible second. "I don't really like them either," you whisper, and there was a time when that would have been a lie, but right now it feels like the truth. (For some reason, you like landings on foreign runways better than domestic ones now.)

The plane comes to a stop and you stand up to retrieve your bags from the compartment above your head. He stands in front of you, staring while you make sure your things are all there. Now he looks a little upset, a little concerned, a little like you do, and you feel bad for wishing he looked this way the whole time because now that he does, everything in you just wants to make it stop. (You wouldn't even know where to start.)

It's dark outside and you're tired, you sleep in the bus on the way home, feel his fingers brush your face before he tries to wake you up. You carry your things to your room, drop them onto the floor, collapse on your bed, close your eyes. When you would go overseas before, you'd miss sleeping in your own bed more than almost anything else, but lately, the beds in your hotel rooms have gotten a lot comfier and your mattress at home feels cold and lumpy and old. It's one of his superpowers; the power to make any bed you sleep in feel like home. (He has lots of superpowers, but you're trying to forget about those right now.)

You want to text him, but you don't. You want to see him, but you can't. You pass out, still in your clothes, wake up to the sound of the coffee maker just after sunrise. You know it's him, you know this is how he copes, you press pause, he throws himself into work, sleeps in his studio, doesn't eat unless someone forces him to, lives on one form of caffeine or another. 

You get up, even though you're still exhausted and you know it's a bad idea, but the dorm is quiet and you know everyone will sleep for at least a couple more hours, so you step toward the kitchen to find him. It's like he knew you would, because he already has a coffee mug ready for you when you walk in. You stand in one corner of the kitchen, he stands in the other, but your kitchen is small and you're not maintaining the sort of distance you're supposed to. 

"Press play," you whisper and he looks up from his coffee, up at you. "What?" he whispers back. "Press play, just once." He sets down his coffee, looks around nervously, as if someone will burst in at just the right moment. "Just once?" he confirms. You nod, he walks toward you, puts his arms around your shoulders, leans up to kiss you and you think, this is a terrible idea, but you let it happen anyway. 

When he pulls away he looks like he's ready to bolt, but you keep him from leaving for a moment, hands on his waist. "Just once," you remind him, he nods, steps back from you, picks up his coffee, escapes to bury himself in work. You sit down in the living room, watch the news on mute, drink your coffee. It's only the pause button, you think to yourself, but it just doesn't help this time. 

(You sneak a peek into the studio later and he's writing furiously on a piece of paper, no doubt using you as a source of inspiration, and you decide you need to find an outlet too or you'll lose your mind.)


	3. pt. 3

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
You could cut the tension with a knife. (You really do love your cliches.) It hasn't been this awkward backstage in a long time, maybe ever, and it's your fault but you can't fix it so you don't even try, you ignore the problem, you ignore him, which only makes it worse. The bus ride back to your hotel feels like it takes a year and no one is unaffected by the atmosphere, normally boisterous conversation choked by silence. 

For the first time, you're grateful that you're not rooming with him, that you ended up with a room to yourself. Less grateful that your room has a door that connects to his, a door that had been unlocked until tonight. Or maybe you're just an idiot and the housekeeper locked it. (She didn't, but you're definitely an idiot.)

You feel terrible. Guilty. You don't know what you were thinking, why you would say something like that, why you let a knee-jerk reaction control you. Sure, this is sort of new for you and yeah, you'd actually spent a lot of time trying to convince yourself that those words were still as true as you thought they were, but you know they're not now and you still said them.

Whatever your words, you know what he heard.  _You're not my type, I don't like you, you're crazy for thinking I did, stay away from me._  None of those things are true, but you know he'll believe every word, and it's all your fault because you let it get to you again, you acted without thinking again, only this time the results are devastating and not at all worth it. You tried to take it back, because he looked so hurt and confused and you wanted to try some kind of damage control, but there were too many eyes on you, too many ears listening, and you couldn't say enough to convince him that you hadn't changed your mind, that you still wanted him, that you do like him. 

You collapse on your bed, stare at the ceiling, close your eyes, see his face in your mind. He looked so thrown off, so devastated, so disappointed by your reaction. He was being completely honest with you and you pulled back, you broke his heart and you promised yourself you wouldn't do that anymore, you promised him and he believed you until now. (Maybe that makes him an idiot too.)

It's ruined. You ruined it. Things were good, he was happy, he was safe, and you destroyed him. And why? Why would you say those things? Why couldn't you just laugh it off, at least turn it into a joke or a bit? (It wouldn't be the first time.) Instead, you treated it like a lie, like an attack, like you took offense to the implication, to something that you know is simply the truth. Instead, you hurt him and you hurt yourself and he'll probably never look at you the same and he shouldn't. You don't deserve the way he looks at you, no, the way he used to look at you. You deserve the way he looks at you now, the way he looked at you backstage, the way he looked at you in the van. If he'd looked at you like that the whole time, you might not be in this mess right now. (You should have stopped looking at him a long time ago.)

Even if you thought he'd accept your apology, what could you possibly say? What were you supposed to do instead? Confess in front of hundreds of people, say he's your type too, tell them you've been hooking up for two months? Is that what he wanted? You'll never know what he wanted because you'll never get him to talk to you again, probably. 

You're driving yourself crazy and you know that everyone else is still up, wired from all the adrenaline and screaming fans, so you head down to the lobby to find them. "Jaeho, give me your room key," you command and he gives you a look as he hands it over, but you ignore it because he's not totally innocent in all this either. 

When you reach the door to his room, you hesitate for a second. What if he's really mad, what if he blows up at you, what if this only makes it worse? But you don't know what else to do and the tour isn't over yet and you can't sleep while he's this upset anyway, so you knock twice, unlock the door and let yourself in. The lights are dim, but not off and he's laying on his side away from you. You think he might be asleep until he says, "I don't want to hear it, Jaeho." 

"Not Jaeho," you whisper and he rolls over to see you and his eyes are red and kind of puffy and you didn't think you could feel any worse, but you do. He sits up, trying to hide the fact that he's upset, but it's much too late for that. "Why are you here?" You shrug. "I thought you'd ignore me," he confesses. "Thought about it," you say, sitting down across from him on the other bed. "I didn't want to lie. I know I should have lied, but I didn't want to."

"You shouldn't have to lie," you reply. "It's just... complicated." He nods. "Are you mad at me?" he asks. "No. You?" He adjusts his hands nervously in his lap. "Not mad, it just hurt." You want to tell him you're sorry, that you'll be better, that you'll never say something like that again, but you don't, because there are no guarantees and this is always going to be hard to explain, hard to control. (Even harder to resist.) You want to show him, to prove to him that you didn't mean it like that, that he's obviously your type too, but now is probably definitely not the right time for that. You clear your throat instead. 

"Tell me how to fix it?" you suggest. "Don't do it again? When it comes up again, don't say it like that. Don't go off script and I... I won't either." He's still fiddling with his hands and for some reason that makes it even worse, like he's nervous around you, like he's scared of what you'll say or do next. (Maybe he's right to be.) You thought this would help, but you feel even worse than when you were alone, staring at the ceiling and seeing his face in your head, analyzing every second of his expression, wishing you hadn't said anything stupid and just hugged him back, wishing you weren't in this mess right now. "Okay," you agree. "I'll stay on script."

"Okay," he repeats. "So, now what?" He looks back up at you, still looking miserable and exhausted, and it's because of you, it's your fault that he looks like this right now and he deserves better than that, better than you, you're sure of it now. You broke his heart earlier, now it's time to break your own. "Now we go back to normal. Not... I mean, last year normal." You realize you might actually mean two years ago, and in order to actually be normal you'd have to travel back before you met, but you settle for a year ago for now. (Because you know it's impossible to go back any further.)

He nods, biting his lip because he must have known this was coming. "Right. Normal," he repeats, letting your words sink in. "This is the only way, you know that right?" The only way to protect him, to keep him safe, to be strong, to save yourselves more pain in the future. "I know," he whispers. "Tomorrow," you add, "tomorrow we go back to normal." He glances at the clock. "It's already tomorrow."

"It's not tomorrow until you get a good night's rest," you argue. If you never sleep again, does that mean you don't have to go back? How long can someone live without sleep anyway? Wouldn't it be preferable to live without sleep if you didn't have to live without him? Does that mean he's become more important than your life? (Was he ever less important than you?) He looks back up at you, realization passing over his face. "If you're not ready for normal yet, I mean," you clarify. He stands up from his bed, grabs your hand, pulls you behind him, unlocks the door that separates your room from his in some metaphorical display of forgiveness, locks the door behind him, lays down on your bed, pulls you down with him. 

Not your best plan, perhaps, but better than some. Maybe not the best thing for either of you, but it's been a long time since you've done what's best for you. What's best for you would have been ending this before it began, getting out at the first sign of trouble, surrounding yourself with unbreakable walls, digging a moat around you and posting guards at the gate. It's far, far too late for that now, so this will have to do. (It's not enough.)

This time when you wake up, he's the one that's gone. It's never happened like that before and that's when it hits you, like a brick wall, like there's a bag of weights on your chest and you can't breathe and you can't move and you can't think and every part of you is aching because this is real, it's real and it's over and you ruined it, and you knew you would but you did it anyway. It's wrong and it shouldn't have to be like this and you shouldn't be this miserable without him. You should have tried harder, you should have paid more attention, because you're already starting to forget all the things you spent months learning about him and you feel sick because you'll never see that look in his eyes again, the one you were too afraid to name, the one he saved for you, the one you tried your best to return. (You succeeded.)

You know it's right for him, but it's your fault and it didn't have to happen like this, when you're working and in a foreign country and you have to see him every day, you have to get on a plane with him later, you have to give the fans what they want even if it hurts, even if it kills you. You should have ended this before the tour, at home. You should have taken him somewhere special, somewhere beautiful, and bought him dinner and let him down easy, explained why this couldn't go on, explained that it wasn't because you didn't care, because you didn't want him, because you didn't lo–

The walls are closing in and the ceiling is crumbling and the sky is falling and you're gonna cry, it's gonna happen, but not yet, not now, you still have work to do, you can't fall apart yet. You have to shut it out, turn it off, pretend you don't feel anything, even though that's not what you want, even though that'll only hurt him more, this is not the time to fall apart. When you get home, you can fall apart, but not here, not now, not like this. (Not with so many eyes on you.)

He manages to evade you until you're on the plane, leaving early with the staff and sitting at a different gate until the boarding call. You stuff your bag into an overhead bin and he's already sitting by the window and of course your seats are next to each other, of course you have to spend the flight in his personal space, it's only right, you deserve it. You deserve the fact that he won't look at you, that he leans against the window instead of you as he tries to get some extra sleep, that the only words you hear him say for hours are, "I'll be normal again when we land." You probably deserve worse than this, you feel worse than you've felt in a long time, and you know it'll only get worse, it'll only get more real as time goes on. 

The plane lands and you gather your things and he seems normal again, he really does, but you're not and you feel like you're dying and you want to take it all back, but he smiles and carries your bag and follows your instructions to the letter. Normal isn't supposed to hurt, but it does, it's breaking you, it's destroying you, it's wrong and it's all your fault and you can't fix it and it's too late and you want to run, but you can't because you'd have to run without him and you can't do it. You won't. You go where you're supposed to and you do your job and you spend all your time away from the rest of the band, away from him, and you hold yourself together, and you don't fall apart. (Not where you think you could be seen anyway.)

Here you are in the city of love with a crushed spirit and a broken heart. You were supposed to look at art, admire the architecture, go to wineries and try new foods, as a band, or maybe just the two of you, but it's all for nothing now. You could have had all of it if you just hadn't screwed it up, if you had waited another week, you could have done everything you wanted. Couldn't you have just waited until you were home to hit the self-destruct? 

No, of course not, because you deserve to be stuck in Paris with him but not actually with him, you deserve to be stuck in your hotel room the whole time. He doesn't, so you're glad when you hear that he's running around the city with Jaeho, probably getting into a little trouble, being normal. You're not glad when you accidentally catch him crying backstage, when he mutters something about European dust as an excuse when he leaves the room. You're not glad at all because he's upset and he's looking at you like you're a stranger and you can't cry, not yet, there's still another show after this one, you have to bury it, you have to pretend it's not there. Isn't that what you were doing last year? Isn't that what normal means for you? Why is it so hard to go back?

You avoid each other after the show, going back to the hotel separately, not because he wants to, not because he's not back to normal. You're not sure if you'll ever feel normal again, if you ever did in the first place, but he's fine and it's kind of killing you and he can't be fine, right? He can't be fine because this is destroying you and he cares about you as much as you care about him, he has to be suffering too, why is he so good at hiding it from you? (Because he's had to do it before?)

When you land in the next city, the last city, you start to breathe a sigh of relief, you'll be home soon, you'll have some time off soon, but you think too far ahead, because when you get to the hotel you find yourself sharing a room with him again and you think your bandmates must have had something to do with it because they don't seem to want to share with either of you. He opens his suitcase on the bed and starts to unpack, looks over at you when you don't start to do the same. "Normal, remember?" he says. "Yeah, I remember."

You feel trapped in your room and you set out on a walk and you know if things were really like they were last year he'd beg to come along, but he doesn't, because it's not like last year. Walking used to clear your head, but it's too full of useless words and ideas and demands, nothing can clear it, you're miserable and it's what you deserve. You get back to the room and you're kind of hoping he's not there, that he's hanging out in somebody else's room for the night, but he's there, working, being normal. He looks up from his work as you lay down on your bed and close your eyes. 

If this were last week, you'd bug him until he gave up on work for the night, make up some lie about the hotel gym being too simple for your regiment, ask him to help wear you out instead, grin like an idiot when he agreed. If this were last year, you'd pester him into working out with you in the gym, you'd sneak out for drinks, you'd listen to him sing karaoke, sigh when he forced you to sing with him, you'd probably pass out next to him, probably not on purpose. You never thought about what it was like for him, not enough at least. You could have been more considerate, pushed the boundaries less, given him room to breathe, but you didn't and you're not sure why it took you so long to realize. Maybe you liked it, tiptoeing along the lines that separated you. (But those lines were there for good reason.)

You actually asked him about it once, laying on the couch in his studio, watching him work, waiting for him to get annoyed with you, pay you some kind of attention. "Wasn't it hard for you? Before?" you asked after a long silence. "Yeah," he offered, still focused on his work. "Why didn't you tell me to stop?"

"Because you might have actually done it," he explained, swiveled around in his office chair to face you. "It was better than nothing, even if it hurt." You didn't really get it then, but you get it now. It's not what you want and it's might not be enough, but it's better when he's here, even though it hurts. 

You try to be normal over the next day and a half before you go back home, but it's not working yet and it feels like it's getting worse, when you remember it's your fault, remember that he'd probably take you back if you offered, you probably wouldn't even have to beg, he probably wouldn't make you apologize. You can't do that to him, but you've been tempted more than once. When you see him, when you don't, onstage and off, all of your waking hours. (Not that it's much different when you're asleep.)

The flight home is long and tiring and you sit next to your manager and you try not to look across the aisle at him, choosing instead to sleep most of the way home. You want to know if he's looking at you, but you're not sure you could take the answer, whichever it is. (You're sure. You couldn't.)

When you get home you have a few days off to skip town, to try and fail to delete his pictures from your phone and sing drunken renditions of the saddest songs you know and cry until you can pretend that things are normal again, depend on your friends to keep you from contacting him. You think they fail once, but you can't remember if it was real or not. (You've got a lot of that these days.)

When you get back to the dorm, he pesters you to record a new song and makes stupid jokes because he knows you're not normal yet, but you're trying to be for his sake. When he falls asleep in his studio, you carry him to his bed because it's normal. When you mostly accidentally pass out next to him, you start to think normal doesn't really apply to you anymore. When you wake up to his sleepy, perplexed face, you decide it never did.

(Two days ago, he woke up to thirteen missed texts from you, ranging from sad to angry to graphic. He should have deleted them all, and he started to but he couldn't finish, because he still feels dumb enough to hope you have a chance and this almost feels like proof.)


	4. pt. 4

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
He's made you record the same verse for the past hour, over and over again, never satisfied and you know he can be a perfectionist, but you're pretty sure he's doing this to punish you. "Again," he says into the microphone, interrupting your verse for at least the fiftieth time. You start again, only make it five words in before he stops you. You're getting angry and your throat is starting to hurt and you know he'll keep making you re-record all night if you don't stop him, so you clear your throat and say, "Okay, time for a break."

He doesn't want to, but he nods after a moment. "Ten minutes," he grants. You take off your headphones, open the door, sit down next to him as he futzes with the controls on the soundboard. "You want to talk about it?" you ask. "I'm fine, it's just not... coming together like it is in my head. I'll figure it out." You nod, picking up your phone and scrolling through your notifications, realizing that you've been here for an hour already and you haven't made any progress. (On multiple fronts.)

On the surface, your European tour went well, but things have sucked for both of you ever since and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. You miss him and it's pretty obvious that he misses you too and even your bandmates have told you to hurry up and figure your s.hit out so everything can go back to the way it was. That's the problem, isn't it? You don't want to go back, you want to go forward, you want this to go somewhere, you want to solve it, there has to be a solution and you're determined to find it. You thought you had found it, but obviously not. 

You don't even know what you want half the time, what's the best case scenario, but right now he's focusing on mixing the recordings he's been gathering for days and his eyes are focused and his brow is furrowed and you're starting to realize how lucky you are that he's into you, that you got to be with him even for a little while, that he's worth all of this. (Why do you keep insisting on screwing it up?) 

"Let's take an actual break," you suggest. "Not yet," he responds quickly, still focusing on making the perfect title track. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought I was the leader or something," you say, half teasing, half serious. He sighs, standing up from his chair. "What kind of break?" he asks, and you can think of lots of suggestions, but you try to pick the least risky one. "Dinner. It's past 9 and you haven't eaten since lunch." Since you brought him lunch and practically forced him to eat it. 

He grabs a jacket because it's chilly out and you both walk to his favorite chicken restaurant. You sit down and order too much food and two beers, which you know you'll end up drinking because he'll want to go right back to work as soon as you leave the restaurant. He's not looking up from his phone and you know he's still working, so you pry it from his hands and set it next to you. "I'll give it back once you eat everything on your plate," you tell him, and you didn't use to hate treating him like a child but now it feels weird. He starts to eat, focusing on his plate instead of you, and you can't believe you thought things were improving between you. 

"You'll get it," you say, hoping he'll look up at you. (He doesn't.) "I know," he tells you. "I'm sorry my voice isn't up to your standards today." He chuckles. "Your voice isn't the problem, it's the verse. Something's missing, I just have to find it." You start to open the second beer, but he grabs it from you. "Mine," he chirps, putting the bottle to his lips. He raises an eyebrow at your expression. "What? It might not help me find it, but it can't hurt."

It's too hot and you slide your hoodie off your arms, order another beer, realize how slowly you've been eating. He smiles, you roll your eyes. "I know what you're thinking, but it's like an oven in here." He looks down at the leather jacket he's still wearing comfortably, then back up at you. "Come on, you know I'm always hotter than you." He laughs and you realize how your words could be misunderstood so you add, "I mean, like, temperature not looks, 'cause you're totally hot." He chokes, putting his hand to his mouth, beer dribbling out down his chin and onto the table. He cleans himself up quickly and he's still coughing and you wish you could use alcohol as an excuse for what you said, but you haven't had nearly enough for that. His eyes are watering from coughing so much, but he's smiling and shaking his head. "I needed a laugh, so thanks." 

"It wasn't a joke," you whine, because apparently you're not done digging this hole yet. "Yeah right," he says, piling soggy napkins onto his empty plate. "Didn't I... I never told you that, did I? When we were... before?" He shakes his head. "Not in so many words." Add that to your never-ending list of regrets, keeping those kind of thoughts to yourself for months. "It's too late to say it now, right?"

"I wouldn't have believed you anyway," he laughs before excusing himself to wash his sticky hands in the bathroom. You try to finish eating but this is not going the way you thought and you're gonna end up having to push him away all over again. He returns a minute later and you stand up, pay the bill, leave the restaurant, walk back home. 

It's dark inside and you turn on the lights. "Isn't anyone here?" you ask. "Nah, they said they were tired of recording and dealing with me so they all went out drinking. They might never come back at this rate." He pauses. "You're probably tired of me too, you should go have fun." If only, you think, if only I could get tired of you. "I'm not. You're not as bad as you think." He laughs. "Yeah, I'm hot right?" He's followed you back into his studio and he closes the door behind you. You turn around. "Yeah," you breathe and your head is buzzing but not because of the one and a half beers you had earlier, it's because of him, because he's only a foot away from you, you could cross the distance in under a second and just... you shake your head, trying to think rationally. 

"So, you know the booth is soundproof, right?" he reminds you, looking you in the eye, not blinking, and your choices seem to be either go into the booth yourself to record or pull him in with you. (Is it even a choice?) You haven't kissed him in 18 days, you think that's 18 days too long, you think the fact that you were still counting should have been a clue, you decide to do something about it right now. He's pressed between you and the door and you forgot how good he is at this, at knowing exactly what you like, what you need, because while you were busy answering your questions about him and obsessing over how this didn't mean anything, how it couldn't, he was figuring out precisely what to do to make this worth it for you, how to make you want him more, applying his perfectionist ways to you. (He doesn't know that he didn't have to try nearly that hard.)

You stumble into the recording booth, wondering if the cleaners will wonder how the glass got all smudged up, but you can't think about it for long because it's been 18 days and he's real and he's clearly forgiven you even if you don't deserve it and you know the rest of your band will stumble home with your manager at some point so you have to make the most of this. (It's the only logical choice, isn't it?) You know this doesn't necessarily solve anything, but it's at least some kind of progress and you don't want to rush him into defining this or say something stupid because he shouldn't have forgiven you in the first place. 

You're sitting on the floor and he's sitting next to you, holding your hand and resting his head on the wall and you notice that you apparently ripped his shirt at some point during the last half hour, and you're actually smiling for the first time since London. "Don't you hate it when people make a mess of your space?" you say, surveying the wreck you've made of the recording booth. "People, not you," he answers, rolling his head over to rest on your shoulder. "I've kind of made a mess of your life too, though." He shrugs. "Haven't I messed up yours?"

"Nothing I can't handle," you respond, your hand on his thigh. "I don't want to ruin the moment but... does this change anything?" Does it count for anything? Yes. Does it change anything? You're not so sure. He always looks to you for the answers, for what you want, for what you're ready for, but you think he's earned a chance to decide for himself. "If you want, if you're prepared for this to fall apart again," you tell him. If you're okay with the fact that I'll break your heart again someday, you think, but you keep it to yourself. He lifts his head from your shoulder, slides closer to you, kisses you slowly, purposefully, and you wonder why he needs words at all because this is so much better than talking. 

You look at the clock and realize that you might not be alone much longer, so you pull him to his feet, kiss him, start to tidy the booth, kiss him, finish tidying up, kiss him, relocate to the couch in his studio, kiss him. "Are you sure this can't work here?" he asks, his voice unsteady. "I'm not really asking," he adds, "I just don't want to wait." He kisses you quickly, as if telling you not to reply, but you want to. "It'll be worth it, I... I promise." A promise you'll do everything you can to keep. "You're gonna think it's stupid, but I think I figured out what's wrong with the song."

"You were thinking about that the whole time?" _If that's what he can do when his focus is split, then it's a good thing he's distracted most of the time,_ you decide. He snickers. "Not the whole time, just... part of it. The verse isn't right for you, I'll assign it to somebody else and give you the pre-chorus." He seems so much better than he did a few hours ago, happier and freer and back to normal. "See? Never underestimate the power of a break."

"Never underestimate the power of us," he retorts, sounding a little embarrassed as he stands from the couch. "You want to try recording it now?" he proposes and you agree. It only takes three tries before he's satisfied with your lines, and he couldn't look any more pleased, you're sure of it. You sit down next to him while he finishes saving all of the changes and making notes of how to finish it up before he glances at the clock. "Done before midnight? That never happens."

"The power of us?" you suggest. "Too bad we can't make this work here, we'd top the charts," and he's joking, but it still makes you feel guilty. You change the subject, because you don't know what you'll say if you don't. "Well, it's much too early to go to sleep. Want to watch a movie?" He hums, deciding, and it's making you nervous. "Is there going to be popcorn involved?" You nod, relieved. "Then count me in." 

Twenty minutes later, you're lounging on your bed picking a movie and arguing about which genre to choose and spilling popcorn as you fight over the remote and you can't even bring yourself to demand the movie you want, can't pull the age card or the leader card or the it's-my-room-so-my-rules card because it finally feels normal again and it seems so unbelievably simple right now. The sooner you decide on a movie, the sooner he'll fall asleep in your arms, so you let him pick for once, not without complaining about his terrible taste in entertainment of course. 

Sure enough, he nods off halfway through, and you're not sure if he's really slept since Europe, you know you haven't, so you don't wake him up, pull a blanket around him and turn off the tv, kiss his face no less than three times until you finally allow yourself to drift off. 

When you wake up the next morning, he's kissing you and the dorm is quiet and the sun is shining and it feels like a dream, a prophecy if you're lucky, because you could definitely get used to this. "We should stop," you mumble as he reaches for your waistband, curse the fact that your room isn't even close to soundproof, wish you were leaving the country tomorrow, not in a couple weeks. He smiles and you ruffle his floppy hair and you smile back. 

"We should make some breakfast," he says, "the others will need to eat whenever they get up." You nod, considering his suggestion. "Or," you add, "we could stay here and let them fend for themselves." You try to kiss him, but he pulls away laughing. "Come on, I'm starving and we probably owe them for putting up with us the past few weeks." 

You sigh dramatically, shockingly okay with the idea of cooking breakfast and sitting down at the table with him and being normal, as normal as it gets for the two of you, so you roll yourself out of bed and into a pair of jeans. He's just wearing boxers and the shirt you tore last night and you realize that he hasn't even tried to wear your clothes since you started doing whatever this is (clothes are less than necessary when you're together lately) and it's all you can think about so you toss him a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. To say your clothes swim on him would be an understatement and he looks so cute you can hardly stand it, frowning at the expression on your face, rolling up the cuffs of your sweats. 

He puts his arms around your waist while you're cooking, kisses your shoulder quickly, too aware of the fact that you could get walked in on. You sit down across from him and he starts shoveling food into his mouth gleefully. "Slow down, you'll make yourself sick," you nag him. "Sorry, I haven't been this hungry since... forever..." he trails off, continuing to eat, and you feel guilty again. You thought he was skinnier lately because he'd been working so hard, and he has been, but it's your fault, just like everything else he's had to go through lately. "Eat as much as you want, I'll make more if we need it."

There's that look again, the dangerous one you won't name, but you return it anyway, quickly but sincerely. It's not going to be easy to keep your hands off him until you go back on tour, but you're willing to wait a lot longer than that if it means he's ready to accept that this is all you can give him right now, that it won't be long before you say something hurtful again as a reflex, that you can't label this or explain it or make it predictable. 

He goes back to his studio after breakfast to work on new tracks for the next album while you tend to your hungover roommates. When you go to check on him, he's changed his clothes but he's still wearing your shirt and you think he's really forgiven you even though you've done nothing to deserve it, you haven't even really apologized. If the two of you were in an actual relationship, you would have opted for the big romantic gesture, taken him to some secluded spot in the woods, bought the most expensive picnic lunch in the history of mankind, got down on your knees and... begged for his forgiveness. You're not in a relationship, though, and getting back together wasn't supposed to be your goal, and yet somehow here you are. 

You can't decide if you should leave him to work by himself, but he sees you in the doorway and his eyes light up and he drags you over to sit next to him and listen to what he's been working on. Even when you think he might be ready to be alone, he grabs your hand and puts it down on his thigh so you know he doesn't want you to go yet. Instead, you stare at him while he works and plays you samples of songs and looks for the approval that you haven't quite been able to give him for weeks. 

"It sounds great, really," you say. "It's still our voices but they sound... different, fuller." You should seriously,  _seriously_  think of something more intelligent to say, but he beams at you anyway and says, "You really think so?" You nod your answer, beaming right back at him. "I guess I've just listened to it too much, it started to sound predictable. You probably have other things to do, but... thanks. I needed... another opinion."

He doesn't realize that there's nothing you'd rather do than spend time with him, even if you do have other things scheduled, that you're always gonna be there when he needs you, whether he likes it or not, that the only reason you avoid him sometimes is because you don't want to make it harder on him and because knowing you're the reason why he looks so sad, why he doesn't leave the dorm, why he isn't even hungry is too much for you to take. It makes you want to take it back, every stupid thing you've ever said, plan some crazy romantic apology even though it would end in disaster and it probably wouldn't be what he wanted anyway, so you cope by making sure you don't have to occupy the same space unless absolutely necessary. 

You forgot how nice it is to be in the same space, but it didn't take long to remember because you've been sitting next to him for four hours and it feels like four minutes and it's so easy, it doesn't feel complicated and he keeps looking over at you and smiling, asking you to okay all the little changes he's making to songs, and this is how it could have been the whole time if you'd just stop screwing it up. 

Eventually, you have to stop ignoring your responsibilities to sit next to him and watch him work, but it's okay because he glances at the door before he kisses you and you pull his chair closer. "Not even two weeks," he says, "we leave in less than two weeks." You smile, kiss him again, tell him two weeks is nothing, leave reluctantly to catch up on everything you've been ignoring. 

When you get home, he's still working, to no surprise, so you barge into his studio and glare at him. He looks up at you and laughs nervously. "I just need another half hour. Thirty minutes and I'll quit, I promise." You shake your head, walk closer to him, put your hands on the back of his chair. "Save and quit or I'll do it for you." He presses the save button, knowing that you'll make good on your threat. "I just have to..." You spin his chair around. "Nope, I'm cutting you off," you tell him, hoisting him over your shoulder and carrying him out of the studio and into his room. "Hey!" he protests, kicking his legs pathetically as you use your foot to close the door. "You should have listened to me the first time," you tease, setting him down on his bed. "Ugh, dizzy," he whines. "Poor baby."

"I would have done it, you didn't have to carry me." You squat down in front of him, resting on your knees, run your hand through his hair, kiss his forehead. "Better?" He nods. "How did your day go?" 

"Nothing to report, just a lot of driving around. What about you? Finish another hit song?" He puts his arms around your shoulders. "Mostly I just missed you," he admits quietly. "Me too," you whisper. "This is gonna work this time, right?" he asks after a moment. "I'll do my best."

"Are you sure this is worth it?" he whispers but he means,  _am I worth the trouble?_  You nod. "Yes, I'm sure." He might not believe you, but you lean in to kiss him anyway, as if that could convince him. 

(His fists tighten around the fabric of your t-shirt and you're certain this is going to be the longest two weeks of your life.)


	5. pt. 5

(Kyungil POV)

...  
You get home from the gym and you hear someone coughing, the sound bouncing down the hallway. You shift into what your bandmates call 'leader-mode' (though it feels more like 'panic-mode') following the signs of trouble to his studio. You open the door, he turns around, smiling like he knew it was you before he even looked. "You ready to record some more?"

"You're sick, recording can wait." He sneezes, trying to stifle it. "I'm not sick," he adds with a sniffle. "Oh really?" You walk closer, put your hand on his forehead, feel the warmth radiating from his cheeks. "Is that why you have a fever? And why you're coughing like a chain smoker and your nose is running?" He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "I'm just tired, I'm fine."

"Remind me what my job is again?" He sighs. "Leading?" You nod. "And taking care of you guys, because if you wind up dead, it'll be on my conscience and that is not something I have time for. Turn off your computer and get in bed. I'll make you some soup." He squawks, "It's just a cold!" as you leave the room, but you ignore him. 

Dokyun's sitting at the kitchen table and he shoots you a look, but you ignore him and bang around in the cupboards looking for ingredients for soup. You put some water on to boil so you can make him some tea. You're actually kind of grateful because you felt like you needed to run around and overreact and take care of someone today and he's giving you the perfect opportunity.

You think he might still be slaving away, but he's followed your instructions for once and he's laying on his bed on his phone. You set down a tray across him and he sits up and picks up the teacup. "What is this?" he asks. "Just drink it." He does, making disgusted faces the whole time.  _Childish,_ you think disapprovingly. (But you actually mean  _cute_.) "Put on a movie so you don't fall asleep before the soup's ready. On second thought, you suck at staying awake for movies. Read a book or something." He rolls his eyes and you return to the kitchen. 

"What's the prognosis, Doctor?" Jaeho calls from the living room. "You have a 60% chance of survival if you. Shut. Up." He cackles, returning to his video games. You finish up the soup and pour half of it into a bowl, store the rest in the fridge. When you walk back into his room, he's finished all the tea and he goes to work on the soup, smiling. "What?" you ask. "It's really good."

"Make sure you eat all of it, then." He nods. You leave for the bathroom to gather some cold medicines and Sihyoung is there fixing his hair to go out. "I don't want to hear it, so whatever you were gonna say, keep it to yourself." He chuckles deeply, combing through his hair while you carry an armful of medicine out of the room. 

"I'm not dying, it's a stupid cold," he says when he sees you. "I'm just not sure which ones you prefer to take," you reply, setting down the bottles on his tray. He grabs one bottle and motions for you to take the rest away. You set the tray on his dresser, provide him with a glass of water to take his pills. "I'm forgetting something," you say as he takes two pills and lays back down, "I know I am... oh yeah." You flop in his bed next to him, reach for the remote. "I'll get you sick," he complains. What he doesn't know is that you already had this cold and you're probably the one that gave it to him, so you're definitely obligated to take care of him. "It's too late to worry about that, now it's time for a movie and eight solid hours of sleep."

"You don't have to do this, treat me like a baby and take care of me. I'm not a baby." You shake your head. "It's my job and you are a baby. Remember? Always a baby for me." He sighs. "You know I didn't mean it like that, I meant... not like I'm an actual helpless human that can't do anything for myself." 

"I know you're not," you say, turning on a movie. "I worry. It's what I do, I'm supposed to take care of you four and I worry." He raises an eyebrow at you. "When Jaeho had the flu, you threw a pillow at his head and told him to stop whining." You laugh. "Come on, we were all thinking it."

"When Dokyun had laryngitis, you told him if he'd ever shut up for five minutes he'd still be able to record," he reminds you. "Again, he was being annoying, moaning about his voice instead of letting it heal. See? I was looking out for him." He closes his eyes, curls into his blanket. "I'm barely even sick and you're treating me like I'm on death's doorstep."

"Well, you're not Jaeho or Dokyun, are you? It's different." He nods. "I know... I just don't know if it's a good idea." You reach for his hand. "I'm just doing my job." He quirks an eyebrow. "Okay, maybe a little bit more attentively than usual, but let's face it, you're way more important to this band than the rest of us."

"That's not..." You cut him off, squeeze his hand. "Don't deny it, it's the truth. You need to get better for all of our sakes and who better than to force you to stay in bed than me?" He opens his eyes, rolls them at you, closes them again. "I guess you have a point," he says, finally starting to doze off. "Like I would say it if I didn't," you scoff. 

He falls asleep and you lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to look at him. He has to learn how to take care of himself, he won't always want you there to do it for him. (You shouldn't be willing to.) You hate it when he's sick because it feels like you've failed somehow, failed to protect him, failed to fulfill your obligations. This time, maybe you're overreacting, but you have your reasons. (You're good at justifying things to yourself.)

It's not like he's never taken care of you, either. It's what friends do, they take care of each other. Once, you were being a little too ambitious with a new choreography and you messed up your knee pretty badly. It wasn't the first time, but you were out of commission for about a week. Even though he still had training and classes every day, he still found a way to make sure you had everything you needed, checked in on you all day long, used the staff members cell phones to text you since he didn't have his own. 

He cooked for you one night, back when everyone teased him about being the type of person who could burn water, and it was possibly the best meal you had ever tasted not because it was perfect or complicated, but because he cared and he sacrificed time he could have spent sleeping for you, to take care of you, without being asked, even though it wasn't his job. (You should have known, right then and there, that this was a recipe for disaster.)

It was almost... endearing how he'd snap at you when you tried to push yourself too hard, threaten you with horror stories of injuries that never healed because patients failed to follow their doctor's instructions, order you to sit down and let him do things for you, sheepishly request your help when he discovered he couldn't reach something you asked for. 

He'd made himself sick worrying about you, so when you got the all-clear from your doctor, he was relieved enough to tell you that he was scared you'd have to leave him the band, that he'd the band would never see you again, that he'd they'd never be able to succeed without you. You laughed it off, called him a worry wart, said it would take more than a bruised knee to take you out, but on the inside, you were kind of worried about having to leave him the band too. (He grew on you so fast, you should have known it would turn into something more.)

You weren't intending to fall asleep next to him, but when you wake up at half past 7, you're still in his bed and he's snoring quietly because he's sick and you kiss his forehead to check if he still has a fever (not because you wanted to kiss him) and he wakes up slowly, smiling up at you. "You look like you're feeling better," you whisper. "It's just a cold," he whispers back. "No, no, you only think that because I'm such a good cook."

"You are a pretty good nurse," he teases and you only let him get away with it because he's got a cold. "I should take a shower. We have work to do." He climbs out of bed, grabs his robe, takes his phone off the dresser and walks out. 

You were only going to close your eyes for a second, but you're still there, almost asleep when he comes back from the shower. "Don't tell me you're getting sick now," he says, towel drying his hair. "You're just an exhausting patient," you mumble, sitting up and stretching. You're not that grumpy, but it all fades when he hands you a giant coffee mug, made just the way you like it. I love you, you think, take a sip of coffee so you don't say it out loud, justify it to yourself. That's just the way I am, you rationalize, I love anyone who brings me coffee in the morning. (Because you've never said it when he wasn't supplying you with caffeine.)

"Sorry," he says, "I really do appreciate it." You nod. "I'm kidding, you know how I get when I'm tired." He knows how you are when you're upset too, and hungry and angry, and happy and stressed out and worried. Not that it means anything. (Not that you'd ever admit that it does.) "You don't have to worry about me so much, I'm okay. Everybody gets sick sometimes, it's just a fact."

As his words sink in, you nod and remember the first time he got sick, the first time after you met, not too long after he started training. He insisted on working through it, kept his worsening condition from everyone, from you, passed out on the floor during dance rehearsal. You don't really remember how you convinced your manager to let you accompany the two of them to the hospital, but you did. 

You do remember the relief when the doctor said he just needed a couple days of rest and some IV fluids, that it was nothing serious. You remember sitting next to him all night, even though you should have been sleeping, and you know you didn't have to, but he was so much younger then and you didn't know him that well yet and he looked so pale and so small and fragile and alone in the emergency room bed, needles poking into his veins, and you didn't examine it any further, you stayed up all night and stared at him, like nothing bad could happen to him if you were watching the whole time. (Why have you always believed you can protect him?)

You remember trying to work yourself up to being angry with him, but when he finally woke up, forgetting to be surprised that you were sitting next to him, apologies tumbling out of his mouth, his lips dry and trembling, his eyes swollen and baggy, his hands fidgeting in nervousness, you couldn't muster even an ounce of anger. (You remember feeling like you might cry.) 

You've tried to forget, but you still remember grabbing his hand with both of yours, purely by instinct, telling him that it's not his fault, that everyone gets sick sometimes, that if he ever lies to you and jeopardizes his health again, then he'll have something to apologize for. Did he feel something for you, even back then? you wonder. (Did you feel something for him, even if you didn't realize it?)

The two of you got closer after that night in the hospital, and everyone noticed, but you shrugged it off as something you'd do for anyone in your band, your responsibility as a leader. He'd gone from being quiet and wary of you to asking you questions about dance moves, asking your opinion on his voice, sitting closer to you during breaks and meals, following you to the gym and passing out the couch next to you on movie night. 

If that hadn't happened, if he hadn't gotten so sick and you hadn't gotten so worried, would you be in this mess right now? Would you still be feeling... something toward him, something dangerous and risky and probably wrong?

"You should shower too," he tells you, digging through his clothes for an outfit. "Meet me when you're done. I need a second opinion on a new project." You nod. "Only if you promise to quit early and sleep off the rest of your cold. I don't want to have to drag your ass to the E.R. again." He looks at you and you know he's been remembering that night too, and you're wondering if that really was the moment this all started, at least for him. It's not like you didn't know that he went a little too far, looked at you a little too much, sat a little too close to be just coworkers, but maybe it's your fault after all. Maybe he would have gotten over it if you hadn't cared so much. (Maybe you were the first one to cross the line.)

"Okay, I'll quit early," he promises. "You better not be lying," you caution ominously, you hope. "I don't lie to you. I haven't since we were trainees. I keep my promises, remember?" His words feel heavy somehow, laced with meaning and gravity that you don't want to consider, so you don't. 

(He takes off his robe to get dressed and he smiles at you over his shoulder and his hair is fluffy and falling in his eyes and his nose is red because of his cold and you know you were screwed from the start and you must have gone temporarily blind for it to take you this long to realize it.)


	6. pt. 6

(Kyungil POV)

...

Going overseas has become your favorite part of this life recently because it means that you get to pretend that you're not being a complete idiot for a few days. This time, you're letting him initiate things and even though you may have thought that would mean hooking up less, he is definitely willing to prove you wrong. 

He's making you coffee every morning and you're forcing him to stop slaving away every evening and if you aren't at a venue then you're both in your hotel room. You've probably more than made up for those eighteen days you spent apart by now, but you're not going to be the first to suggest it. 

It's been an exceptionally long day and you're more than tired, you're worn down, so you opt for the hotel swimming pool instead of the gym. The tour is short this time, but it's going well and you're okay with long days if it means you don't have to go back home to dorm living yet, if it means that you can be with him for a little longer. (Because this is still just a hookup.)

He finds you there after a little while, swimming laps across the pool. He sits down on the edge, soaks his feet, waits for you to notice him. You make him wait, finish your lap slowly before swimming closer to him. You rest an elbow on the edge of the pool, prop yourself up next to him. "Did you get bored with the cable again?" you say. "Let's call it writer's block. I needed to clear my head." He kicks his feet across the water slowly. "Where are the others?" He shrugs. "Out, I guess. I didn't see them on the way down." 

"You're in your swimsuit," you point out. "So?" You grin, grab his hands, yank him into the pool. He lands with a splash, comes back up sputtering and glaring at you. "You could have just asked," he coughs, trying to focus enough to tread water. "Where is the fun in that?"

"Is it always about fun with you?" You reach for his hands, lace your fingers together. "Why'd you come to find me?" He rolls his eyes. "You were the only one here," he replies, but you know that's not the whole truth. "And?" you prompt. "I wanted to see you," he says, and you knew it but it's nice to hear it out loud. "What a coincidence. I wanted to see you too."

You think this might be too public of a location for the two of you to be alone much longer, so you climb out of the pool, grab a towel, toss one to him. "I didn't mean to interrupt," he says but you shake your head. "I was done." He hangs on your arm on the way back to your room, laughs when you make a stupid joke, leans his face into your shoulder. (You definitely have everything under control.) 

You take a shower first, wash your hair, get ready for bed. You come out of the bathroom to find him going through your phone. You know the passcode for his phone too, but you've never actually used it. "Are you reading my texts? I told you, I don't even have that girl's number," you say. He looks up at you, shakes his head. "What are all these pictures?" He turns the screen around to show you picture after picture of him, pictures you took when he wasn't looking, when he was passed out on a tour bus, when he was focused on work. "What do you mean? Don't you have pictures of me on your phone?"

"Not like these, these are so... ugly," he says, turning the phone back toward him. "Let's clear up some space on your phone, okay?" You leap across the room, land on your bed, wrestle your phone out of his hands. "You can't delete those," you say, sitting up and turning off your phone, holding it protectively in your lap. "Why not? I'll leave the good ones." You shake your head. "They're all good ones," you insist. "You have no eye for photography."

"I mean it, look." You tap around on your phone, turning your phone back and forth so he can see. "I took this one on the plane because we were finally going overseas again and I was happy." He sighs. "That's the day I took care of you when you were sick. This is when I felt like I was forgetting what you looked like because you were working so hard, but I didn't want to bug you so I took it through the blinds." You swipe around some more, explain the meaning behind photo after photo of him. 

"This one is from your favorite restaurant, because I thought you looked happy. And this is when you were obsessed with that anime and you wouldn't even look at me until you finished the last episode." You flip past some ridiculous selfies that Jaeho had taken covertly at some point, find more pictures of him. (You didn't realize what a collection you had going until now.) You grimace at the next picture. "This is from Paris, when I thought you'd hate me forever." All you had then were these pictures, these memories. You realize now that these are not the type of pictures people usually need to get them through breaks with their boyfriends. (Did you just refer to him as your boyfriend?)

You find another picture, turn your phone so he can see. "Do you know what this one is?" He nods. "It's from the night we started hooking up," he says. "It's from the night I kissed you for the first time," you correct him. "I don't have the greatest memory, I don't have a lot of memories I want to hold onto, but you... you can't delete my memories, because even if you don't like how they look, if you don't like the lighting or your expressions or what they remind you of, they're real and they're my memories and I want them."

You think he'll laugh and tell you how ridiculously cheesy you are because it's the truth, tease you and say he doesn't know what he sees in you, but he doesn't, all he says is, "Why?" You don't know what he's looking for, what answer he wants, what words he needs to hear. "Why what?" He relaxes his arms, collapses in a heap next to you. "Why do you hold onto those memories, even the bad ones?"

"Because... because it's you," you say finally, prepare yourself for a lecture on non-answers and how not to be a sappy loser, but all you get is a head on your chest and an arm wrapped around your waist. "So, all you have to do to forget me is clear your phone?"  _If only it were that easy,_ you think. "The thing is, I thought I needed something to spark my memory, but I don't anymore. I still want them, but... I wouldn't forget even if you deleted every last one." You're not sure what that means, why you're holding on to everything, good and bad, why you're actually kind of okay with it. "You think it's stupid, right?"

"It's kind of stupid, but... I don't want you to be able to just forget either." He sits up to kiss you, lays back down on your chest. "Even if some of those pictures came out kind of ugly, it doesn't mean you are. Even if some of the memories are bad, it doesn't mean we're bad for each other. Right?" You hope, you hope with all your might these days. He doesn't say anything, closes his eyes. "If you really want to delete them, I can try to let some of them go."

"No, keep them," he says, "they're yours, I don't have the right to delete them." You kiss the top of his head. "What kind of pictures do you have of me?" He shrugs. "Mostly pictures of the two of us together, but you always look good in them," he explains. The thing is, you always think he looks good too and it scares you, honestly, but that doesn't make it any less true. 

You click your phone on, angle it over him, snap the picture, admire your work. He opens his eyes. "Why do you want to remember this one?" he asks. "I don't know," you respond, "I just do." 

"We have to go back soon," he says, and he means back home but he actually means that you have to go back to pretending, to being miserable, to trying to ignore each other and you're beginning to hate that idea, you propose another. "No, we don't," you protest. "What do you mean?" 

"We have to go home, but we don't have to go back." He sits up, holds your hand, looks at you like you've lost your mind. "This doesn't have to stop at home," you explain, "not if we're careful, not if we keep it under control." He shakes his head, but he's smiling. "It won't work, we'll get caught, it's too big of a risk."

"Then let's stay here," you suggest. "We have a comeback to promote, we have to go home." He's playing with your hand and he's biting his lip and he doesn't want to get his hopes up, but you know you've got him. "Then we'll go home and we'll focus on the comeback unless... unless we run out of focus." You'll close the door, but you don't have to lock it. (You're incapable of locking it.) "This doesn't work at home, you've said it yourself."

"We've never really tried and you know better than anyone that I've been wrong before." He nods in agreement, leans over to kiss you. "If it becomes a problem, we'll stop," you continue. "For real?" he asks. "Just until we leave again, it won't be that long anyway. Isn't it worth a try?" 

"Is it?" he mumbles. "Yeah, I think it is," you tell him, eyes fixed on his. "Okay, but we're going to need some ground rules," he says. "Like what?" He shakes his hair from his eyes. "Like you can't just... show up whenever you want and expect me to go along with it. We need a plan, an actual plan." You roll your eyes. "You're no fun. How are we supposed to plan this?" 

"I don't know, but let's start with rule number one, you have to stop looking at me like you've seen me naked," he tells you, crosses his arms across his chest, pouting a bit. "I've done a lot more than see you naked," you tease and he scoffs. "Yeah, but you don't have to make it so obvious." 

"Fine. Rule number two?" you prompt. "We sleep in our own beds," he says and you sigh. "Makes sense, I guess. How many more of these do you have?" He shrugs, counts off rules on his fingers. "No kissing outside of the dorm, don't make suggestive jokes when other people are around, and no touching unless absolutely necessary." 

"How is this any different from when we press pause?" you whine. "Because we don't have to keep it paused when we're alone," he explains, "this is the only way." You nod slowly. "I'll accept all your rules under one condition." 

"What's that?" You kiss him, tuck your thumbs underneath his waistband. "I get to break them all when we press play again." He nods. "It's only fair," he jokes, leaning in to kiss you again. 

You tell yourself you're not being stupid, that you're not risking everything, that everything will work out, but you've been lying to yourself for so long that the only truth you can remember is that he's worth the risk. 

(He's laughing as you contest some of his rules and jokingly add some of your own and his eyes are shining because he's always loved to hate your sense of humor and he's always liked being in on your jokes and right now you feel like the luckiest man in the world.)


	7. interlude: yj

(Yijeong POV)

...

It's really late, or really early depending on how you feel like looking at it, and he's asleep on your desk, breathing quietly, his face relaxed and motionless and flawless and you're falling again, you feel the ground crumbling underneath your feet, you feel your heart ripping itself to shreds. Your breathing is less than steady as you reach toward him, feel his skin beneath your fingertips, brush his hair away from his eyes, close your own as your hand falls back to your lap. 

Eventually, once you've looked at his sleeping features for far too long, you place your hand on his shoulder, shake him awake slowly, gently, whisper his name. He opens his eyes and he looks at you and your breath catches because he is so goddamn beautiful and it's not fair, why him, why did it have to be him? He smiles at you, his eyes only half open, tells you to get some sleep as he stumbles to his room. 

You should sleep, you can't accomplish anything else tonight, but you're not tired and your heart is aching and your breathing is shaky and it feels a little bit like you might be dying, so you stay at your desk, work yourself into exhaustion, pass out on the couch. It's nothing new, it's of no concern to anyone, but it feels different and it scares you and you can't look at him, can't look him in the eyes, but he doesn't even seem to notice.

 _Stop falling in love with your straight friends,_ you tell yourself,  _he is never going to like you._ He can't, he's in charge of you and you're not his type. (You will never be his type.)

You figure he must be worried about you, though, because he drags you away from your computer one night, drags you out of the dorm, drags you into a bar. "Trying to get me drunk?" you try to joke, but he doesn't seem to think it's funny and everything is changing but you can't explain it, so you drink instead, stumble home past 2, hope he remembers the way back because you're not thinking straight, because you're leaning against him and his hand is resting on the small of your back like it belongs there and you can't focus, your bloodstream is overrun by alcohol and your head is clouded by his presence and you're not sure if you can feel anything that's not him anymore, not sure that you even want to.

 _It's okay,_  you tell yourself, repeat it over and over in your head. No one will think this is wrong if they think you're both drunk, and you are drunk so it can't be wrong, right?

The dorm is dark and he's too close to you and you can't see anything and you're distracted and you end up slamming your shoulder into the side of the hallway, hard. You try not to make a sound but your nerves are screaming in pain and he knows it, so he presses his hand against your mouth, presses your back into the wall, and you can't think of your shoulder anymore, you can't think at all because he's looking at you with laughter in his eyes and his thighs are pressing into your hips and his skin is touching your lips and you think this might be heaven, you think maybe you've died and ascended to a higher plane, you think that he'll definitely regret this if he remembers it in the morning. 

You see the second he realizes you're in a bit of a compromising position and his eyes sober up immediately, he backs away, stops looking at you. You think he'll bolt, but he still follows you into your room, lay down next to you, stares at the ceiling, waits for you to speak. "Do you feel any better?" he whispers because your roommate is sleeping and this feels strange, dangerous, wrong, this feels like something you have to keep hidden. "Yeah, I guess," you whisper back. "You don't have to work so hard. You can ask us for help."

"I can handle it," you insist, and his hand finds its way to yours, his fingers running across your palm. "You don't have to do this alone," he tells you and your heartbeat triples in speed because he doesn't mean it, he can't, but you don't want to be alone and right now, you're not. He passes out before you do, because your mind has been spinning itself sober for half an hour, and his hand is still touching yours, and he smells like the cologne you bought for his birthday, and you know he couldn't have possibly worn it for you, but you're falling, you're falling deeper and deeper every second.

The next morning, you wake up with a pounding headache and a huge bruise on your shoulder, but it's okay because later on, when you're alone with him in your studio, he remembers that you got hurt and maybe it's just because it's his job, but his fingers ghost across your purpled skin and he says, "You should be more careful, that looks really nasty," and he's looking at you in a way that tells you he remembers everything, and you don't see any regret behind his eyes , because maybe he doesn't regret it. 

 _Stop thinking this means something,_  you demand of yourself,  _he doesn't like you, he probably doesn't even like you as a friend._  (He only puts up with you because it's his job.)

You're working overseas and you're sharing a room and the quarters are too close and your head is full of thoughts of him, and so are your dreams. He knows you're dreaming about somebody, it's painfully obvious, but he doesn't know who it is and he won't let it go. He'll bring it up at the most awkward, embarrassing moments, like right before you go on stage or when you're out to eat with the whole band and the staff. "Come on, just tell me, it's not a big deal," he'll say. 

At some point, you give up and lie, but he obviously doesn't believe you because you pick the most obvious answers possible, the girls that everyone is obsessed with so that you have an explanation if he asks you why you're into them. If you pick someone too obscure, you wouldn't know what to say, how to make it seem like there was any possibility that you would have a thing for them without overcompensating and seeming like a jerk. 

You can't tell him the truth because the truth is that you've dreamt about him more than a couple times in the past two weeks, more than several times since you met, and you don't think it'll stop happening anytime soon. If it was some actor or some rock star who kept appearing in your unconscious mind, then maybe you could tell him the truth, maybe you could be brave enough for that, but you can't predict how he would react if he knew you were dreaming about him, you just know it would ruin everything. 

 _Stop dreaming about him,_ you beg your subconscious,  _stop wanting him so badly, he's going to find out._  (It's a wonder he hasn't found out already.)

On one December night, you follow him out into the cold, sit across from him at a table and pretend to eat, but you can't, you're not hungry, something is wrong, something is building and it's big and it's dangerous and it's too late to stop. You walk back to the hotel and you try to support his drunken weight, but he's upset, he snaps at you and it doesn't hurt as much anymore, you've come to expect it. 

He's been trying to push you away, to get some distance, to make this stop for weeks, and you've gotten used to it, learned how to predict his strategies. Maybe that's only making it worse because there has to be a reason behind his efforts, he wouldn't waste his time separating himself from you without a damn good reason, and you're not sure what that reason is, but the possibilities are clouding your ability to think logically. 

You're back in your room and he's collapsed on your bed and you hardly drank anything, but he's right there and you can't stop, you sit next to him, touch his hair, rub his back, hope he looks at you, but when he finally does, he looks like a stranger. There's a look in his eyes that you've never seen before, that you didn't know he had, and you can't explain why it's directed at you but you're glad it is. You realize why because he leans in, he kisses you, he slides your jacket from your shoulders, and there's no time to think, there is only time to act, you kiss him back, you pull him on top of you, you know this is a risk but you're taking it. 

It feels like a dream, except that you know it's real and he's kissing you and he keeps saying your name like it means something, like it matters, like it's important, and this is so much more than you could have imagined, this is worth all the waiting, all the dashed hopes, all the suffering, because he's real and he wants you, even if it's just for tonight, and that's more than enough for right now. 

The next morning you wake up alone and you knew it was too good to be true, you knew he didn't mean it, but it still catches you off guard and you only allow yourself a few minutes to cry in the shower because this is your fault, you asked for it, you have to live with the consequences.

 _Stop being an idiot,_ you scream internally,  _this is what you get for letting it go too far._  (This is exactly what you deserve.)

You didn't think there would ever be a next time, but it doesn't take long to find out you were wrong, and it's not as urgent and he's not rushing you, he's not rushing himself and he looks at you like this might not just be happening because he's lonely and pent up and you're the only one around, and he whispers that he loves you before he can stop himself and it's everything and your heart stops and you know it's a lie, but it's the kind of lie you want to let yourself believe. 

 _Don't trust him when he says he loves you,_  you remind yourself, _he doesn't really._  (He's just not good at thinking things through.)

When you open your heart and he rejects you in front of hundreds of witnesses, looks at you like you're a liar, a freak, a monster, you know it has to end, but you're still not willing to do the ending if you have any other choice, so you let him end it for you. 

He wants things to go back to normal, and you know it's the only way, but you delay normal to kiss him, to be with him, to wake up next to him one last time, to sneak out before he notices, because you're so good at torturing yourself, because you deserve to suffer. You're expecting him to flip some kind of 'normal' switch the second you get to the airport, but he doesn't and it's messing with your head because he seems different, even upset, and you don't know what you're supposed to do about it because maybe he's just upset with you and he asked for normal and you have to do what he asks. 

Seeing him after that is killing you, but you have to bear it, you work together and you have to be normal and no one else can know what you're going through, you have to pretend, you have to forget. You have to hold yourself together because you were never stupid enough to believe that this could work and it shouldn't surprise you that you ended up here. 

 _Don't cry,_ you tell yourself,  _you knew this would happen._  (This only ends one way.)

When you start seeing more of each other at home, it feels real again and you've forgiven him even though he hasn't apologized, but you'll never forget the way he looked at you that night, like you were a stranger, you have to remember it, remind yourself when he implies that he's attracted to you, every time he meaninglessly says he loves you, every time you start to feel like this matters, every time you think this might not end in flames. 

 _Stop looking for more,_  you chastise yourself,  _you don't get any more than this, you're lucky you have this much._  

You're almost done preparing for a comeback and you're exhausted, mentally, physically, emotionally exhausted, and things don't usually go well for you when you're this tired, because you get reckless, you touch him when other people are around, you say things you shouldn't, you fall asleep in his arms and you kiss him awake and this is ruining you, but you can't stop now. 

You all go out to eat the night before your album drops and he sits a little too close, leans in when he's talking to you, he's making your head fuzzy and you're not sure where this is headed, but you've been telling yourself he doesn't mean it for months and it's not working anymore. Now, when he kisses you, you feel like he wants to, and when he blurts out that he loves you, you feel like it might not be an accident, and when you banter on stage, you feel like it isn't an act, and it terrifies you as much as it excites you because you always thought the inevitable final flames of your relationship would devour only you, and now you're not so sure. 

 _Stop letting him pretend,_ you decide,  _maybe this isn't as one-sided as you thought._ (Maybe he doesn't just like you as a friend.)


	8. pt. 8

(Kyungil POV)

...  
After a particularly trying incident at a fan-sign, you make a mental note to tell the stylist not to dress him in such revealing styles anymore because you're starting to suck at controlling yourself around him and his stupidly enticing skin. (Would she think that was suspicious?) 

It's been a month since you got back together, if this can even be called being together, but you're supposed to be focusing on promotions and not each other right now, and you can't do that if you keep touching him, if he keeps looking at you like that when you do. 

The recording booth has gotten quite a workout since you came back from overseas, and you know it's risky and reckless and can only end badly, but in the moment you can never bring yourself to care about the consequences. He cares, though, he thinks about this ending all the time. You only know this because it's all he can talk about when he drinks, which seems to be a lot more often lately and you feel bad because it's your fault. 

He's started sneaking into your room at night, trying not to wake you as he climbs in and puts his arms around you. You know he's only breaking his own rule because he thinks this thing between you, this thing you refuse to name, is like a ticking time bomb or that it has an expiration date stamped on it, that the end is inevitable and he wants to make the most of it while he still can. Maybe he'll only speed up the countdown, force yourselves to end this even sooner, but you can't handle telling him to stop. (Why drag out the unavoidable?)

You have to be up early for your schedules and your manager seems impressed that he never has to wake either of you up anymore and you feel a little guilty, but it's still worth it because you get to wake up with him almost every morning and you've gotten too used to it to stop. Most of your days are spent sitting around backstage at music shows, and it's hard to act the way you used to, to sit around and tease him and play silly games. Sometimes it feels like everybody's watching you, waiting for you to slip up, to say something, to do something obvious and stupid, but you know which boundaries to push and which ones to respect, you know how to pretend. (You're getting better at that now.)

You know you're both running full speed toward the edge of a cliff, but you just keep going because stopping doesn't help, doesn't last, it just hurts the both of you until it starts up again. It'll be better if this just explodes at some point, beyond repair so you stop falling back into this mess. (Or at least that's how you justify this to yourself.)

You're all exhausted after another excessively long day and you collapse on the living room furniture as soon as you walk through the door. He passes out almost instantly, his head resting in your lap, and it shouldn't make you nervous but it does. Everyone else in the room couldn't care less, they're just as worn out as you, but you're trying to think of an excuse why he's so comfortable with you. You've never felt the need to excuse it before, but this thing is starting to feel a whole lot less like a series of convenient hookups and a whole lot more like an actual relationship, at least for you. It's freaking you out but he was probably hoping for this all along. (Sometimes it scares you when you remember how long he's wanted you.)

You close your eyes, rest your head on the couch, lay your hand on his back and pretend that this is okay, that it's normal, that it's not anything more than exhaustion. You don't know why you keep pretending, keep lying to yourself, keep lying to him, but it's the only thing that makes you feel a little more secure, a little less vulnerable. (To think you used to believe you were the strong one.)

"This still doesn't mean anything. You know that right?" you tell him the next morning when he wakes up in your arms once again. "Hmm?" he mutters, still much too sleepy to deal with your confusing statements. (Your confusing lies.) "It's just because I'm tired," you lie. "I don't have time to go find somebody else to hook up with. This is just... convenient." He looks up at you, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Are you joking around? It's too early for your terrible sense of humor."

"I'm not joking, I'm just making sure you remember what this is," you say, dreading the look on his face as you do. He looks just as crushed as you knew he would and he runs his hand through his matted hair. "I know we're not dating if that's what you mean." You sigh, sitting up and leaning back against the wall. "We're hooking up, that's it." He bites his lip, his eyes still sleepy and dull. "That's why you make me breakfast and hold my hand when we're alone backstage and kiss me way more than necessary? Because we're just hooking up." He has a point. "You don't like it when I kiss you?"

"That's not... if this is just because you can't do any better than me right now, then why are you so nice to me?" Look at that, he's got another point. (He's so logical sometimes and it's exceptionally tiresome.) "I'm a nice person," you reply, acting like it's an excuse, an flawless explanation. "Okay, but you don't have to be with me. I'm not sleeping with you because you're a gentleman." You roll your eyes, only because he's treating you like you're transparent right now, like your lies have no impact on him. (They must have some impact because he still looks like he's gonna cry.)

"Well, I didn't know that until now. I guess I don't have to pretend anymore." You're trying to be cold, but he's not gonna believe that as easily as he used to, before he knew who you are on the inside. "Really?" he says before launching himself across the bed to kiss you.  _Oh,_  you think,  _he's right._ This really isn't for his sake. You slide your hand into his hair, and pull him away from you. He whimpers and you're not really sure where this is going to go when someone raps on the door and startles you both apart. "In the van in thirty minutes," your manager says through the door. You curse under your breath and he smiles and this isn't going the way you wanted, not at all.

"If you wanted to convince me that I'm just your most convenient option," he begins, "you should have started a long time ago." He clears his throat, looking away from you. "I know what this is, I know we're not going to last, but don't tell me it's meaningless," he adds. If it didn't mean anything, you wouldn't keep accidentally saying you love me. He doesn't say it but you know he's thinking it, you can see it in his eyes. (You know each other too well to lie about these things.)

He sneaks out of your room to get ready and you waste your time sitting on the edge of your bed, stunned at your inability to lie to him, to make this less of a risk. When did he get so confident? When did you manage to convince him you were that into him? You weren't trying to. (Not consciously, you suppose.) Somehow this all feels even more dangerous than it did last night, and you don't know how to make it stop. (If it's even possible.)

You elect to ride with some of the staff, not trusting yourself to pretend around him yet, not after all that. He doesn't seem to care, seems unaffected by the crisis raging inside of you. You take a different route than normal to stop at the staffs' favorite coffee shop, so you're surprised that your band isn't sitting in the dressing room when you arrive. The driver must be taking his sweet time, they should have been here long before you. 

You kill time on your phone, but you hear someone say the word 'accident' in the hall and you panic. "Some kind of accident... freeway... pile-up, it's a huge mess... have to tell..." you manage to make out and you sit up straighter, try to call your manager but he doesn't answer. You're starting to work your way through calling the rest of your bandmates, silently begging one of them to answer, when they walk through the door, unconcerned about what you've been going through. 

He walks in last and the relief is overwhelming and you think you might cry and you stand up abruptly and he looks at you, confused as to your expression. You don't care, you don't know where to go, but you grab his hand and drag him down the stairs, toward the bathroom that no one uses because it's in desperate need of renovation. You're still grateful when you confirm that it's empty and pull him into one of the stalls, lock it behind you. "What are you doing?" he says for the fifth time and you wrap your arms around him, bury your face in his neck, hold him so tightly it must be uncomfortable for him, but you don't care because you were terrified. (You admit it, you overreacted.) 

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" you demand. "I was sleeping. There was a traffic jam, so I took a nap. Is that a problem?" You pull back to look at him. "Someone said there was an accident, a big accident, and I thought you might... I thought it might be..." He smiles. "You still sure this doesn't mean anything to you?" You roll your eyes, breathe his name. "Shut up," you tell him and you kiss him to make sure he does. "You're breaking the rules," he says as you break apart. "You started it." He laughs a little, kisses you again. "You have to pick up your phone, even if you're mad at me, okay?" you tell him, try to make him promise. "Even if I'm sleeping?" he asks. "Especially if you're sleeping. You shouldn't scare me like that." He laughs. "Okay, I'll try my best." 

He's beautiful and he's safe and he's laughing at your stupidity and all is right in the world and he's right, you don't kiss him for his sake but you're gonna do it anyway, even if it proves that this means something to you, even if means that this will hurt more when it inevitably falls apart. 

"Someone is going to get suspicious if we don't go back soon," he points out. "You go first, we shouldn't go back together, it'll look weird. I need a minute anyway." He stifles a laugh and reaches up to kiss you one last time. "I'll stall for you," he promises, grinning from ear to ear.  _This still doesn't mean anything,_  is on the top of your tongue, but if you can't make yourself believe it, then he never will so you stop trying. (You stopped trying a while ago.)

When you return to the waiting room, he's already passed out on the couch again. You envy his ability to sleep all the time, you still haven't mastered it, but you sit down next to him and try anyway. You really freaked yourself out, and you're not totally convinced that everything's fine just yet, so you tell yourself it doesn't mean anything as you rest a hand on his hip, just to convince yourself that he's still there. (Keeping him safe has always been your job.)

That night, you're the one who sneaks into bed with him, after finding his roommate sleeping on the couch on your way to get a glass of water. Jaeho's gonna be pissed if he wakes up and finds the door to his room locked, but you don't care. 

You think he's asleep, but it turns out his eyes are just closed, as he proves once you get under the blankets and wrap your arms around his waist. "Well?" he says expectantly. "Aren't you gonna say something about this just being a hook up?" he asks, rotating in your arms to face you. "Shut up," you tell him, trying and failing to sound gruff. "Make me," he says and you roll your eyes at him. "I thought I was the one who liked cliches," you whisper before kissing him and pulling him closer to you. So what if this means something? So what if admitting that will only speed up the inevitable demise of whatever this is? Maybe it's a bad idea, the worst idea you've ever had, and maybe this will ruin everything, ruin both of you, but maybe you just can't bring yourself to lie about it anymore.

(Jaeho bangs on the door at 6am, but neither of you pay him any attention. He'll probably try to get you back later, but right now you can't bring yourselves to care.)


	9. pt. 9

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
You're lying on the floor, resting on your arms, when you hear your cellphone ping at the arrival of a new message. You glance over at it, see his name above the text, scoff in disbelief. He's texted you a million times before, stupid jokes that he knows you'll laugh at or sound clips of songs he's working in or, more recently, increasingly suggestive emojis (kids these days...), but nothing quite like this. You've been gone for less than 24 hours, on a sort of vacation to see an old friend off to the army, and it's the middle of the night and you've been drinking and he texts you three simple words: i miss you

He isn't even following grammatical rules and you think,  _crap, this really doesn't feel like a hookup anymore,_  and you've been trying to convince yourself it was for weeks. Then you think, _crap, I shouldn't text him when I'm drunk,_  because you've typed 'I wish u were hre' but it's too late because your phone happily declares that your message has been delivered. (It's not your phone's fault, but you feel like throwing it anyway.)

He texts you back quickly, too quickly, sending a selfie of himself pouting in his studio, and you think,  _crap, he is the cutest thing I've ever seen,_ and then you notice that he's taken it from an angle that shows off his neck, because he knows you're kind of especially obsessed with that particular part of him, and you think,  _crap, why do I have to think he's hot too?_  You're almost considering leaving early just so you can see him sooner, but you can't abandon your friends and you're too drunk to drive or locate the subway station, so you text back, 'quit playin dir T go to bed ill see u tmrw' and put your phone on silent. (Then you check it anyway to see that he's responded with a 


	10. pt. 10

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
He's not saying anything, he doesn't say a word to you or anyone else once the live stream ends, not one word on the ride back to the dorm. You know this was a bad idea, convincing him that you could make this work at home, especially considering that it doesn't really work when you're away either, but it's too late to take it back now. 

You don't see him until later that night, when you're grabbing a beer from the fridge and he comes out of his room for a bottled water. His eyes are sleepy and he's dressed for bed and he stops when he sees you, when you turn around and lean back against the fridge, pop open your beer and take a gulp. "I just need some water," he whispers, walking toward you and reaching toward the fridge. "Are you done giving me the silent treatment?"

"I don't have anything to say," he says as a weak defense, his hand falling to his side. "I think there's actually a lot you could say, but I'll start if you can't think of anything." You put your hand on his arm, look at him sincerely. "I'm sorry," you say. "For what?" You step away from the fridge, allow him to open it. "For breaking the rules. That one about unnecessary touching, I broke it and I'm sorry." You realize belatedly that you just broke it again. He retrieves a water bottle, starts to walk back down the hall. "That's it?" you say, your voice creeping above a whisper. He turns back to look at you. "Maybe we need to pause this again," he says softly. "Is that what you want?"

"What I want doesn't matter," he replies and you want to disagree, but he wouldn't believe you even if you weren't in this situation. "I'll be more careful," you tell him confidently (you hope). "It's my fault, I broke the rules first." He hangs his head, like he thinks you blame him, but you know you're the only one to blame, you're the one who let this happen, you're the one who suggested forgoing the pause button, you're the one that got handsy with him because you were worried, but even if you hadn't done any of those things, you'd still bear the blame because you're in charge and you're older than him and you're supposed to protect him. (You used to be so good at your job.)

"None of this is your fault," you say, your voice dropping back down to a whisper. He shakes his head. "You're only doing this because I want to, I should have kept it under control." You reach toward him, grab his hand, stare at him until he finally looks at you. "I'm not here because it's what you want. I made the first move, remember?" You're not exactly sure why it's so important to you that he knows it, but you tell him anyway. (Because he deserves to know that you're not what he deserves.)

You know he'll keep trying to blame himself all night if you let him, so you don't give him the chance, you hold his hand and you lead him to your room, you close the door and you place your drinks on your dresser and you lean in and you rest your hands on his face and you kiss him until it doesn't matter who's to blame. (He'll realize that you're to blame someday anyway.)

You spend the early morning looking at his sleeping figure and agonizing over how busy you're going to be for the next couple of months, how tired you already are, how your exhaustion always ends up hurting him in one way or another. You know this isn't much of a secret anymore, not to anyone who's paying attention, but you're still pretending that you're being subtle, that you're not taking unnecessary risks, that no one has any idea what you're doing when you're alone with him. 

You decide to try and wake him up because you have a schedule and you also have a tendency to drive yourself crazy when he's not awake to distract you, but he doesn't seem to care about that now, he rolls away from you and mumbles, "Too tired, hate bowling." You chuckle at his grumpiness, you've forgotten just how much he hates getting out of bed in the morning because he's seemed a lot more willing to wake up lately, and sometimes he even wakes up before you just so he can be the one to kiss you awake. (You're glad your influence on him isn't always a bad thing.)

You lay your hand on his back, trail your fingers down his spine, command yourself not to say anything stupid because there is a sort of warm feeling growing in your heart and that is exactly the place where it shouldn't be happening, he makes you feel so cozy and safe and that's a bad thing only because you have a habit of opening your mouth without thinking when you feel safe, opening your mouth and saying ridiculous things that shouldn't be said because they shouldn't be true, things like, 'I missed you' or 'I think you're so beautiful' or 'I love you', and you really used to believe that you could keep everything under control. You thought if anyone was going to get too attached, it would certainly be him, so you had nothing to worry about. (Have you always been this dumb?)

You accept your stupidity for right now, halt your endless internal reflections, return your focus to the boy who's trying valiantly to go back to sleep next to you, because he's so damn cute when he defies you, and you can't help but lean down to press kisses into his back, next to his spine, one after the other, trailing a lazy pattern of something that can't possibly be love across his skin. He sighs and mutters, "It's not gonna work."

"What?" you say, your words muffled by his skin. "I'm not getting up yet." You laugh. "You sure about that?" You can almost hear him roll his eyes at your childishness, he turns over so he can see you and you realize how far you made it down his back because his waistband is about an inch from your chin and you look up at him. "Give it your best shot," he teases and you glance at the clock, sit up and shake your head. "We have to leave in an hour and a half and that is not nearly enough time." He lets out a frustrated squeak and he's just so freaking precious, and you really just want to kiss him, but if you start, you'll never make your schedule, so you settle for ruffling his hair and climbing out of bed.

You start to get dressed and he buries his head in your pillows again. You remember that the two of you didn't really solve anything last night, that things are just as volatile as ever, but he's too sleepy to talk about anything right now, and he looks worn out but not upset, so you let it go, drag him out of bed in time to get ready for work. He whines the whole time, but he's not just being dramatic, you can tell from the dark circles under his eyes that he's not exaggerating his exhaustion, and it's definitely partially your fault, and you decide that you could all desperately use a day off, you'll ask your manager later, he'll arrange it for you. 

That's how you find yourself on a not-a-date with him a few days later, sitting in the back of an empty theater, trying to focus on a movie that you've been wanting to see for weeks, but he's decided to direct all of his focus to you and the next thing you know, you're making out in the back of a dark theater like you're in high school or something, not that you're complaining because the movie was kind of disappointing anyway. Or at least, the first ten minutes were. 

You have to stop being so obvious, you have to stop taking so many risks, you have to stop wanting this so badly, but right now you owe it to him to stop trying to figure out how to stop and focus on the fact that he deserves this, he deserves your full attention. 

The credits roll and you're confused by the ending, and not just because you only saw about fifteen minutes of the movie, but you'll have to watch it again later because he's holding your hand and staring off into space and he doesn't look okay, he almost looks sick. You squeeze his hand and ask, "Are you alright?" He snaps back into reality, looks over at you, his eyes sad and cold. "I'm fine," he tries, but you have a few more minutes of credits and you're not going to let him lie to you this time, and you have a sneaking suspicion that you know exactly why he seems so different than he did a minute ago. 

"I know the movie was kind of lame, but it's nothing to cry over," you say, lean over to run your hand across his scalp. "I'm not crying," he insists, but his voice wavers a little and he looks away from you in embarrassment. You lay your hand on his forehead, but he shakes it off. "No fever, so what is it?" He stands up, grabs his phone from the cup holder. "We should go, it's late." 

"You know I'm gonna bug you until you spit it out, but I'm really tired, so can't we just skip all of that?" you suggest. "This isn't a hookup!" He tries to walk past you, but you rest your feet on the seat in front of you so he can't escape. You should deny it, but he's upset and he's already on the brink of tears and you can't do that to him right now because this is your fault and you should've protected him from this. (You should have protected him from you.)

"Then what is it?" you ask, but you know he won't answer you because he probably doesn't know either. "We should go," he whispers instead. "Answer my question first," you insist, because you want him to be angry, you want him to call you out on this, you want him to be upset that you keep hurting him, you want him to realize that this isn't something he should want, that this will destroy him, that he has to grow up and protect himself because you're too selfish to do it for him anymore. (Maybe you never did it in the first place.)

"I can't, we have to go," he says, trying to push past your legs and escape, but you don't budge. "You have to pay the toll first," you try to joke, because he's not frustrated enough to direct his anger at you yet and he's getting all serious again and it's hurting you to see him hurting and you can't make it stop, so this will have to do for now. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, which are still watery, leans down to kiss you, you slide your feet back down to the floor, wrap your arms around his waist, pull him into your lap, keep him from leaving. "Do you regret it?" you say, and you think he'll ask which part, but he doesn't, he just shakes his head again and stands up from your lap. 

When you get back to the dorm, he boards himself up in his studio to work and you don't know what to do, you didn't want to make this harder for him, but you should have known that your not-a-date would turn into a date-by-any-other-name and that you'd just end up hurting him, just like you always do. 

It takes you about ten minutes to decide to raid his studio and fix this, even though that is the extent of your plan and your intent to fix this will fade when you see his face, but you invade his space anyway, sit next to him at his computer, spin his chair so he's facing you. "Do you want to pause this again?" you ask. "Pausing this doesn't make it better." 

"What would make it better?" His shoulders drop and he looks down at his lap. "If it was real." You might have known he was thinking it, but you didn't think he would actually say it, so you're caught a little off guard.  _It is real, that's the problem,_  you think, and this is all your fault. "Real how?" you whisper, because it might help if you know what he wants, what this means to him, where he wants this to end up, and it might help him if he got to tell you. "Real like a rel—" he stops, rolls his chair back from you. "Forget it."

"Isn't that the problem? Isn't that why you're upset? Because tonight felt kind of... normal?" You're not sure if normal is exactly the right term, but making out in a theater for two hours seems a little more like a date than anything else and you know he knows it, you know he's trying to forget it and you should be trying too, but you're putting it off. "Tonight felt... I don't know, didn't it feel kind of right to you too? Like it... like we're supposed to..." he trails off and he looks crushed because you're still staring at him like you don't understand, but you're only doing it because you want him to say it first, you want him to say that this is what he wants because maybe it would be okay, maybe you could forget everything else if this is really what he wants, if he really understands that the two of you can't have a future, if he can accept that right now is all you get. 

"Never mind," he mutters, "of course you wouldn't feel that way." He stands up from his chair and he starts to leave, but you say his name and he stops immediately, halfway between you and the door. You walk closer to him, rest your chin on his shoulder, wrap your arms around him. "So, is that what you want? Instead of pausing this, you want... an upgrade?" He sighs. "What I want isn't important. What matters is that I can't do this if I have to wonder what we... what I mean to you all the time. Am I a hookup? Am I just a distraction?  I don't want an answer, I want you to tell me what this is and keep it that way." In theory, he's got the right idea, he's got a good plan, but in reality you've been questioning what he means to you for months and the answer is always changing and you keep getting more and more confused and conflicted, but if this is what he needs from you, then you'll try. 

"You are..." you stop, make him rotate to face you, because you can't do this if you aren't looking at him. "You are my friend and sometimes I take advantage of that so that I don't fall apart." It's not exactly a lie, but he is more than just your friend and sleeping with you is not how he keeps you from falling apart, you just know that admitting it would make this worse. "It's... not a hookup, but this obviously isn't a relationship either, so what am I?" 

"You're mine," you say, unaware of how wrongly possessive it sounds until the words leave your lips, so you add, "unless you don't want to be." He bites his lip. "I want to be, but you don't want to date me, so we have to keep this from feeling like we're dating." You're not sure what you want from him, but you have no choice but to agree. "So, no more movies?" you clarify. "No more movies," he confirms, but the statement carries a lot more weight than that. "We either have to press pause again or save this for when we're really desperate."

"I don't want to pause it," you say and he nods. "Then we'll just dial it back until we go back on tour." He steps away from you, sits down on the couch. "And when we do go back?" you prompt. "We'll... renegotiate." You sit next to him. "So we just... ignore each other until then?" He scoffs. "We follow the rules, for real this time." You nod, try to remember all the rules he had made a month ago. No sleeping next to him, keep kissing to a minimum, no touching unless you're hooking up. You think you might be forgetting a few, but you're not going to ask him to remind you. He sticks out his pinky. "Promise?" he says and it's childish and it doesn't mean anything, but you link your pinky finger with his anyway, because he deserves to get what he wants. "Promise."

(It doesn't sink in until later, when you can't sleep and everything is quiet and he's in his own bed, but at some point you started to want an actual relationship with him and you're not ready to deal with that just yet, so you block it out and focus on making this easier on him instead.)


	11. pt. 11

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
You wake up from a particularly vivid dream one morning more than a little embarrassed to find him already awake, looking up from his phone at you, like he's trying to see into your thoughts. You're too busy being embarrassed as you look away from him, excuse yourself awkwardly, lock yourself in the bathroom, to realize why he didn't seem amused, why he even seemed a little upset. It's not like this has never happened before, you've shared a room hundreds of times over the past few years, sometimes the roles were switched but you were never anything more than amused when it happened to him, certainly not upset. Things are different now, things have changed between you over the past year or so and once your embarrassment fades, you think you know why he seemed so weird about it. (You'd be weird about it too.)

You don't get a chance to talk to him about until that night, running around and doing shows and trying to be normal backstage. He seems like himself, but you can see it behind his eyes, he's still concerned, he's still thinking about it and worrying, he's even snapping at anyone who dares to get in his way, he's not himself and everyone knows to stay clear of him when he gets like this, when he's too introspective to see what's going on around him. Now you're the one who's amused, because you forget sometimes just how insecure he can be when it comes to you, he always seems so confident in everything else he does. You should be thinking of a way to make him trust you more, believe in himself more, but you're too busy trying not to laugh at how ridiculous he can be. 

Once you get back to the hotel, it's late and you know he won't bring it up first, so you decide to have a little fun, torture him a little bit, work out in the gym, shower and get ready for bed before you do anything to dispel his worries. When you finally feel bad enough about his depressed mood to talk to him, you sit down on the end of his bed and close his laptop. "About this morning..." you tease. "You don't have to explain."

"I don't?" you say. "No, you don't. I can't hold you accountable for what happens in your dreams, and even if I could, it wouldn't matter because this isn't a relationship, so we don't have to talk about it." You move his laptop off his lap, hover closer to him. "Don't you at least want to know who it was about?" He shakes his head. "What reason could I possibly have for wanting to know which actress you want to sleep with the most? Would you want to know who I dream about?"

You laugh, because he's flustered and he's insecure and he's so cute when he's jealous, you were planning on dragging this out a little longer, but you can't keep up the facade anymore. "It was about you, you idiot." He looks back up at you, obviously not expecting your response. "Really?" You nod. "It's always you, lately. Believe me, I was surprised too, but..." He cuts you off, leaning forward to kiss you, his hands on your face. "Who's better, dream me or real me?" he asks, pulling back to look at you and smiling. You wonder for a second what would happen if you said dream him, but you decide that you've probably tortured him enough for one day. "Hmm..." you hum, fake deliberating in your mind, "not sure, I guess I need something to compare it to."

His eyes light up, he kisses you again, his hands working your t-shirt up to uncover your skin. You're still entertained by this whole situation, but it doesn't take long for him to regain possession of your complete focus. (It shouldn't be possible, but this is exponentially better than in your dreams.)

When all the lights are off and the two of you are crowded into the same hotel bed, you know you should definitely be sleeping by now, but you're not tired of playing with his hair yet, you're not tired of his fingers trailing down your arm, across your hand, back up to your elbow. "So, who do you dream about?" you ask quietly. "Anime characters." You roll your eyes. "Anybody else?"

"Oh, yeah, what's the name of that actor? You know, he's the one from that movie you love so much..." He's teasing you, you know it, but it's still annoying. "There is one other person, although it doesn't happen very often..." You tug at his hair and he squeaks, relenting. "Okay, okay, yes, I dream about you too. Why do you think there used to be entire days that I couldn't look at you?"

You had forgotten about that, you hadn't made the connection until he pointed it out. You were lucky enough not to dream about him until last fall and what a wake-up call that had proven to be. You remember the morning after it happened, ignoring him in the kitchen, ignoring him at work, flinching when he touched you. He kept asking if you were mad at him, if he had done something, if everything was okay, but you didn't give him any answers because you were a little mad at him, but not for anything he could actually be held responsible for, and he had done something, but only in your head, and everything was not okay, but you couldn't explain why without having to admit that it had happened in the first place.  

It took you days to come to terms with it, to look at him without remembering his lips on your skin, your hands on his face, his hands in your hair, and it shouldn't have mattered because it wasn't real and you didn't want him at all and he wasn't even close to your type, but it did matter to you because it felt almost real and it did make you want him a little and your ideal type seemed to be a bit less restrictive than you might have thought and it really messed you up. He seemed relieved when you finally returned to your normal routine, but he didn't know you were still waging war with your thoughts every time he was around. (It would have been a lot to process even if he hadn't been a bandmate.)

It's only been months since you started to dream of him, but he's surely been doing it a lot longer. You feel bad for teasing him about it back then, for pestering him to give you details, for whining when he wouldn't tell you which supermodel or pop star had his attention, for wondering why he'd start blushing, why he'd always give you the most cliched and obviously untrue answers. It'd be weird to apologize for that now, but you still want to. (Your list of things to feel guilty about just keeps growing.) "Right," you say, "sorry about that." He shrugs. "It's not like it was your fault, no one controls those kinds of dreams." 

"So, who's better? Dream me or real me?" you ask, genuinely curious because you still feel like you don't know what you're doing half the time, you still wonder if he's disappointed, you still think this might not be worth the risk for him much longer. (That was never a problem until him.) "You know that saying about there being no stupid questions?" You nod, your face brushing against his hair. "I found one." You laugh, mostly out of relief and he chuckles. "Why?"

"Why is real you better?" he clarifies. "You're not gonna like the answer." You sigh. "Do you want me to go first?" He nods, even though you know he probably won't say it anyway. "You're better because it's real," you say simply, "although in my dreams you are a lot quieter." He slaps your forearm, lets out a sound of disbelief. "Your reason isn't really a reason," he complains. "Yeah, but it's true."

"My reason is stupid," he whispers. "So? This whole conversation is kind of stupid, but you shouldn't let that stop you." He sighs. "Fine. You don't kiss me in my dreams, like it doesn't even cross your mind. When it's real... it's almost like you want to." 

"I do want to," you say, even though you know you're crossing the line, you roll him over to face you, kiss his forehead, his eyes, his jawline. "It's not stupid to want me to kiss you," you say against his skin. "You sure about that?" Isn't it only gonna make it harder when it stops? is what he means, and you can't say you haven't wondered the same thing. "If it is stupid, then I'm being just as stupid." More stupid, you think. 

"You," he begins, but he stops himself with, "never mind." You kiss him again, more seriously this time, and wonder what else he wants to say. You know he does this, waits for you to be willing to talk about something, anything, and then he tells you everything he's been holding in for days, weeks, months. (Years?) You could force it out of him, order him to finish his sentences, or try to coax his thoughts into the open, but his thoughts don't belong to you and if he's not ready to share them, then you could never force him to be, you don't want to know if it would be against his will. (If any of this was against his will, you'd fall apart.)

"You know that thing I'm not supposed to say?" he whispers, after a long moment of silence. "Yeah," you whisper in response, guilt creeping up again. "I really want to say it right now." Maybe you should let him say it, maybe he shouldn't have to be the one who keeps this from getting out of control, from growing into something else, something undeniably real, but he's your only hope of that now. (There is no hope for you now.) You tell him you know, kiss him before those three words have a chance to slip out, hold him closer, feel like never letting go.

This isn't the first time you've talked about your dreams, the conscious ones, the ones you can control. He brought it up a few nights ago, when you thought it was a little too early to be talking, and a little too late to salvage unwise dreams. He'd asked you about your hopes for your future and you weren't exactly sure what he wanted you to say, so you tried to pick something that he wanted as well. "I want to sell a million albums." He chuckled, rolled his eyes. "Okay, but what about after that? What do you want after this is over?" You, you thought suddenly, I want you. "I'll figure it out when it's over." He sighed exaggeratedly, sat up next to you. "You must want something, you have to have a dream, even if it's unlikely. I won't laugh, just tell me." You relented, ran a hand through your hair to distract him from your words. "I want a house." He laughed, then realized he had broken his promise and apologized. "I'm sorry, but that's it? Your crazy pipe dream? A house? You could at least make it a mansion."

"Hey, it's my dream, you don't have a say," you said, poked his arm harshly. "What's your dream then? It must be so much better than mine. What do you want when this ends?" You were joking, you weren't trying to put him on the spot, but he looked away from you and his smile faded. "I won't laugh," you assured him. "Liar," he muttered. "Should I guess then?" If you could have made it into a game, maybe it wouldn't have felt so real. "Okay, do you want to retire from music to raise flamingos?" He shook his head, his smile returned a bit, tugged at the corners of his lips. "You want to run off and join the circus?" you tried, but he shook his head again and reached out to hold your hand. "You're gonna buy a boat and sail around the world?" 

"I get too seasick for that," he whispered finally. He had started to understand, he knew that this was his only dream. You're not sure what changed, what showed him that this could be all he wants, all he'll ever want, but you wanted to be happy about it, you tried to be glad even though it hurt. "I want a house too," he mumbled as he laid back down next to you, and you sighed because you thought he might really be getting it, but no matter how much he wants this life, needs this job, it seemed like he still wanted you more. "What kind of house?" you asked, because you weren't ready to stop talking and you were genuinely curious about where he saw himself in the future. (You shouldn't have been.)

"A small one, with just enough room to record," he explained. "What about a yard?" you added. "I don't need it." You sighed, because he was doing it again, he was limiting himself, he still didn't think he deserved more. "What about a porch? You have to have a porch." He chuckled. "Why do you care? It's my house, you don't even have to come over if you don't want to." His words stung you, and you didn't expect it to hurt, because why should you care if he invites you over, why do you care if he has a porch or a yard or if he's happy where he lives? "So, is that your dream? Getting rid of me?" Maybe you were teasing and maybe you weren't, but his expression changed immediately, he shook his head roughly, his hair brushed against your skin. "I didn't mean it like that, it's just a house. It's not my dream, I just want one someday." He cleared his throat. "You already know what my dream is," he mumbled softly, "don't you?"

You did, but it wasn't the dream he thought. He still thinks his dream is you, but you know his dream is fame and measurable success in the music industry, your heart aches because he's letting you overshadow his actual dream, even more so because you're letting him let you. "I want a house on the water," you began, because you didn't want to think about it anymore, "the ocean, a lake, it doesn't matter, I just want water and trees and a deck. I want to barbecue in the summers and I want a fireplace for the winters and big picture windows and a sarcastic welcome mat." He looked up at you and smiled. "That sounds like you," he said, "like something you'd want." You nodded slowly. "Your dream house sounds like you too."

"It's not my dream house," he corrected you, "it's just a house." You smiled, looked over at him. "Right, because this is your dream," and he thought you meant you although you actually meant music, but you let him believe it because you know he has to figure that out for himself. (Maybe you were forgetting that people can have more than one dream.) 

You don't remember falling asleep that night, all you remember is him babbling about different bodies of water that would be perfect for your dream house but you must have nodded off at some point because you don't remember deciding to go to sleep. You don't know why he wanted to hear about your dreams, why he wanted to think about the future, why he brought it up out of the blue, but you've been more concerned with the present, with what you're going to do before this all ends for good. 

He's sleeping soundly next to you, rolled on one side, blankets tucked under his chin, and the sun is rising because it's early in the morning, and you can hear birds chirping in between the sounds of city traffic that surround you and the last thing you want is to have to wake him up, but you might not have a choice because you have to work and this is his dream and it's your job to make his dream happen. Maybe I have a dream after all, maybe his happiness is my dream, you think. 

When you wake up the next time, he's already in the shower. You look at the clock and realize just how late it is, wish you regretted not getting much sleep, hop out of bed to hop into the shower with him. You get ready for the day together, he tidies up the hotel room while you rumple the sheets on your bed so it looks like you slept there. (You haven't slept there since you got here.) You think he might feel a little unsettled by all of the words whispered last night, all the confessions and mostly unspoken declarations. (You're going to have to learn to control your emotions, you should have mastered that a long time ago.)

He walks past you to unplug his phone from the charger and you grab him around the waist, pull him onto your bed, bury your face in his neck. "What are you doing?" he asks, but you hear amusement in his voice. "I didn't get any sleep, I'll have you know," you tell him. "And who's fault is that?" You scoff. "Obviously it's yours!"

"Yeah, right! It's clearly your fault that I didn't sleep." You lace your fingers between his. "You're an idol, idols don't sleep." He laughs. "If I'm an idol, what does that make you?" 

"A grumpy old man who needs his sleep," you explain. "If you want to stop, just say so." He doesn't mean it, not in the grander sense, but it still gets to you. "I don't want to stop," you mumble against his skin, "I'm just kidding." 

"I know. I'm sorry I didn't let you get your beauty rest," he teases finally. "It's okay, I don't need it." You can feel him glance up to look at the clock and you know it's late before he even says it. "Better get some coffee, because we have to leave in ten minutes." You groan, not sure why you want him to feel bad for you. You remember why when he rotates in your arms to kiss you. "That means we have eight minutes until we have to be in the lobby." You kiss him. "Which means we have six minutes before we have to get out of bed," he calculates, then kisses you again. "Better make it count," you say. 

(You want to tell him the actual reason why real him is better than dream him, that your dreams don't compare because he's not there in your arms when you wake up, but this has already gone further than it should and you're trying desperately not to make it worse.)


	12. pt. 12

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
You're not quite sure how you ended up here, sitting in a restaurant on your first actual day off in weeks alone with him. It was supposed to be all five of you, but everyone else suddenly had other plans. You're not usually one for conspiracy theories but it seems a bit suspicious. 

He appears to be okay with it, happily chowing down on the various meats you've been grilling and putting in his bowl. Things have been okay between the two of you lately, maybe even classifying as 'better' but you're still just waiting for everything to fall apart again. You're overseas right now, and that's supposed to make things work, make them easier, but it's not really working for you this time because you can't seem to make yourself stop thinking. This hasn't been simple for months, or ever, but it's really wearing on you, the reality of how risky this is, how shortsighted you're being, how important he's become in your life, in your happiness. 

"Aren't you going to eat anything?" he asks, breaking your cycle of thoughts. "I'm not hungry," you mumble. "Hey, if I can't use that excuse, you can't either." He trades bowls with you, motions for you to eat, and it shouldn't make you feel worse, but it does.  He takes care of you too, he's important to you too, he protects you too, and that was never how this was supposed to go, you were never supposed to start depending on him. He's supposed to need you, not the other way around. (How are you ever supposed to go back if you need him too?)

You're exhausted and you can't turn your brain off, running through the same endless loops you've been obsessing over for months now, and it all revolves around the simple, undeniable fact that this can't be real. Even if it feels real, even if it's starting to look that way, this will never be real or lasting or sustainable, it can't grow or change or improve, it will always be this, it will always be uncertainty and misspoken words and it will always eventually turn to heartbreak and misery and you can take it, you can accept it, but he can't, he doesn't deserve to keep living like this. 

He knows you're not okay, but he's probably not sure why, so he keeps saying random things about the weather (it's hot) and the food (it's good) and your hotel (the beds are comfy). He's trying to distract you and you appreciate the effort, but it's not really working this time. 

You end up in a karaoke room and he sings his heart out while you down a couple of shots and try not to hit the self-destruct button, not yet. (Maybe it doesn't count for much after all, since it's so easy to ruin it.) Eventually, he starts pouting and whining and trying to get you to sing with him and it's not the first time, not even close, but you think he's not taking this seriously, that he hasn't considered any of the reasons why this isn't the right thing for either of you, even if it feels like it could be, that he's being naive and optimistic and stupid, that it's your responsibility to force him to be realistic. 

You've been arguing a lot more than usual and it's starting to get to you. First, you fought last week when he was being hard on himself because your album had done well, but not as well as he wanted it to. All you were trying to do was convince him that you weren't disappointed, that he wasn't solely responsible for making you all successful, that no one had anything to hold against him, that he works so unbelievably hard sometimes you think he'll die of exhaustion, but he didn't hear anything that you wanted him to, he only took issue with the words you used to say it. 

He'd gotten upset and asked if you thought he should just give up, that you might be better off without him in the band, but he phrased it like he thought you might be better off without him personally, and then you got upset and told him that was ridiculous, that he hadn't done anything wrong, that you were proud of how hard he had worked for you, for all of you. He listened, but you're not sure if he believed you, he just let it go anyway.

Then you fought two days ago, because he felt like you were being cold toward him and you're not sure he was wrong. You've had a lot of thoughts running through your mind lately, because this keeps getting more real, more serious, more important and you know that can only end badly. 

They say that bad things happen in threes, so you've been waiting for this. "This has to stop," you say. "What?" he asks, another song beginning to play on the machine. "We have to stop doing this." You think you might have to clarify, but he knows what you mean and he looks confused. "All of a sudden? Did something happen?" 

"This can't go anywhere, so it has to stop," you explain. "I thought... where is this coming from?" Why can't he just accept it, obey you without question like he used to, like he's supposed to? That would make this so much easier, if he didn't fight back, if he still took you seriously, if he couldn't see right through you all the time. "It's not working, it never worked in the first place, you know that." He reaches out to touch your arm and it makes you feel even worse. "I'm know I got weird for a while, but I'm okay with the way things are, I can handle it."

"But you deserve someone who can give you an actual life, an actual future and I wish that could be me, but it's not!" you explode, you knew this was coming, you've been holding it in for months. "I can't give you that right now and I'm never going to be able to, so you need to move on! Move on now, while it's still easy."

"Easy?" he gasps, his eyes dampening. "This has never been easy, not for a second! I... I've felt this way about you for so long, you don't think I'm attached to you? I can't even distract myself with work like I used to, even that doesn't make it stop because I love you!" He stops, agitated and trying not to let his emotions overpower his logic. "And don't tell me not to say it, you get to say it all you want because it's an accident, but I'm not taking it back."

He dries his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, and tears are starting to well up behind your eyes. "If it's you now, then it's gonna be you for a long time," he continues, "and I don't need a future and I have a life! I have a job and I have friends and family and you, don't tell me that doesn't constitute a good life."

"You deserve more," you say, stretching out the syllables in the hopes that he'll understand, that he'll get it. "I deserve this, I deserve to suffer for this, because I want to be with you, even if it's not perfect or easy, and I'll take all the pain that comes with it." You close your eyes tightly and rub your fist across them because somehow, he still doesn't get it.  "Happily," he adds quietly. "And I'm supposed to just accept that?" 

"Is this because you want more? Did you... meet someone?" You sigh. "It's that girl back home, isn't it? The one who works at that café. Don't make excuses, just tell me. You're done with me, right?" (If you lie and say he's right, would he finally realize that this can't work and move on?) 

He's obviously not in the mood to answer your questions and you don't really feel like answering his, because he's unbelievably foolish to even think such a thing, so you stop asking, act instead. You step closer to him, tuck his hair behind his ear, kiss him slowly, hope that this will convince him that random girls in cafés stopped comparing to him a long time ago. (You're not even ready to admit that to yourself.)

"So what now?" you ask as you pull away, your hand resting on his arm, before he can interrupt you. "We just keep doing this? It's too much of a risk and it can't go anywhere and I'm okay with that, but you can't be." You're lying, you want a future too and he didn't use to be included in it, but he is now and you don't know when it started, but it doesn't matter because it'll never happen. (Not in this life.)

"If you're okay with it, then I'm okay with it," he tells you, like it means something, anything, but it means nothing because you're not okay with it, so he can't be. "And then what? Keep doing this for the rest of our lives? Sneak around, but not well, and fight about what we think is right and pretend we aren't miserable?" You're trying to make him understand, but he's too blinded by what he feels for you, and it's pathetic. (Why does he trust you so much?) "So you're done? You're giving up? Because I can't force you if you're really done, but you're always the one who comes back to me. Don't you think that means something?" 

"No. It doesn't." You think it sounds final, but he's not convinced. "If you're done, then be done, but don't lie and say it's for me." You nod, because you're not done and he knows it. "Then what do we do about it now?" He shrugs. "Say you're sorry and kiss me again and we'll go from there." You shake your head. "That won't solve anything."

"It'll make you stop yelling," he points out, sitting down on the couch. "I didn't mean to yell," you mumble sheepishly, "I'm tired and I'm trying and it's not enough."

"It's enough for me." You sit down next to him. "It's enough until everything falls apart." Until you realize you deserve more than this, you think to yourself. "We're not going home yet, it'll be fine." You shake your head. Nothing about this is fine. It's not fine that he's wasting himself, his time, his energy on you. It's not fine that he can't tell his family about you, that he doesn't hang out with his friends if he has the option to hang out with you, that he's tired and he's drinking more and he seems sick and sad when you're home. 

It's not fine that this is all you'll ever be able to give him, because you'll never be willing to force him to give up his dreams for you, or to let him if he tries. It's not fine that this thing turned into a some kind of dysfunctional relationship even though you tried to stop it, even though you thought you were safe. (Maybe it would have been fine if you didn't care about him.)

"So you're not ready to stop but you don't want to keep doing this the way we have been? Then what do you want?" he says, playing with the microphone that's still in his hands. "I don't know. You tell me." He thinks for a moment before answering. "We'll just be more careful. We'll actually pause it when we're home."

"Is that gonna be enough?" you ask, but you already know the answer, it's not enough because he will realize it someday, when he realizes that he does need a future, that he deserves a future, that you can't give him any kind of future. "Can't we just try?" You nod. "We can try." It's all you can say, because he's right that this won't end until he ends it because you'll always eventually want him back, you'll always give in when you're tired or lonely or drunk or some combination of those things, and he'll always let you until he's ready to end this for real, for good. 

Later, it's dark and you're back at the hotel and you think he might be asleep but you're not sure, you start talking anyway. "I'm sorry it has to be like this," you whisper. He doesn't react, you think he's really asleep, you keep talking. "I'm sorry I say things without thinking." You said you loved him again last night, because you're too stupid to remember to think straight when you're together. He doesn't really look thrown by it anymore, like he's always waiting for it to slip out, like he knows how to make you say it, and you're not sure what that means, but it doesn't change the fact that he always lets you take it back, doesn't call you out on it, even after the hundredth time. (Maybe he doesn't think you mean it, maybe he doesn't need you to mean it, maybe he just likes hearing you say it.) 

It also doesn't change the fact that he never says it back, a fact that remained unchanged until tonight. You're not the only people who've said stupid things during an argument, the only people who've ever used a fight as an excuse to speak unrestrained, but you didn't want to hear it like that. He's never, ever, ever let it slip before when you were alone, when he was sober, when it was real, not once, not out loud, and you decide it's not fair. It's not like you didn't know he felt it, it's not that it was a surprise, but it's not at all the way you were hoping it would happen. 

You're realizing now that you'd been hoping he'd say it on accident for longer than you thought, that you'd done some calculative things just so you wouldn't be the only one to let it slip. The reasons you slip are not the reasons that he might, the motivation is different, his defenses are stronger than yours, he's willing to accept whatever you're willing to give and he's prepared to follow every rule you lay out to the letter, so he doesn't say stupid things nearly as often as you do. (What a strange thing to envy.)

It makes you doubt yourself sometimes, doubt that he feels anything for you, doubt that he doesn't see this as a hookup, doubt that he needs you at all. Sometimes you have to make him remind you, use him to shake off all the doubts, and you don't care if it's not fair to him, sometimes you walk the line and you push the boundaries, even in public, just so you can be sure that you're not the only one affected by this mess, that he's just as overwhelmed by you as you are by him. 

"I'm sorry I can't give you a white picket fence," you mutter, closing your eyes. "No one's gonna give me a white picket fence," you hear him say and you suppose you should have made sure he was actually sleeping. He rolls over to face you, his hand on your arm. "What do you mean?" you ask, moving closer to him. "You know what I mean, there is no possible scenario that ends with a white picket fence. That's just not how this works." 

"Not if you keep sacrificing it for me," you say. "I don't get a white picket fence and two kids and a dog, from you or anybody else. I accepted that a long time ago," he explains, and you shake your head. "That's not true, things change." He shrugs. "The only way for me to get those things is for me to change and that's not gonna happen." You open your mouth to disagree with him again, but he doesn't let you, kisses you instead, makes you lose all your words. What were you even trying to say?

"Even if it were possible, I don't want any of that if it means giving up on you." You kiss him again, because you know arguing with him rarely goes your way anymore, and you don't want to give him up either and you don't really want all those things you're supposed to want anymore and you know he's right, you know he can't change, you know he meant it when he said he loved you earlier, you know you have to go back home and press pause for real this time. (You know it's gonna ruin you both.)

It's late and you have to work tomorrow and things get even more out of hand when you're tired, so you make yourselves stop from going any further, hold him in your arms instead, say good night. "What I said earlier..." he begins, "I didn't want to say it like that." You didn't want to hear it like that either. "So, can I say it again? Just once?" 

It's dangerous and he looks up at you, waiting for an answer, his eyes sad and concerned, and you should say no, you shouldn't want to hear it, but you're terrible at saying no to him now, so you nod ever so slightly, hope he doesn't see it even though you know he does. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, looks back up at you, smiles genuinely. "I love you," he says, no fanfare, no buildup, just the facts. 

Your heart is aching because a few hours ago you were ready to end this, and now you're back at square one, ready to keep sacrificing his future for your happiness and it doesn't even seem like that terrible of an idea at the moment. "I'm not taking it back this time either," he says. You nod. "Go to sleep," you whisper, not trusting yourself to say anything else. He curls into your chest, presses kisses into your skin, sighs and closes his eyes. 

(You can't give him what he deserves, you can't give him a white picket fence and two kids and a dog, but he doesn't seem to care about what he deserves, he doesn't want a white picket fence and two kids and a dog, and why is that starting to feel so much like fate?)


	13. pt. 13

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
Your head is pounding and your chest hurts and you can't take it anymore, everything is too bright and too loud and he's so close to you and you can't do anything about it. The walls are closing in on you, the room is shrinking before your eyes, you're freaking out and you can't handle this, you rush out of the practice room. You catch his eye as you leave and you know he'll cover for you, he always covers for you. (He protects you too, remember?)

You run up flight after flight of stairs, burst through the door, collapse on the ground against the wall, hang your head, rest your arms on your knees. You're not sure why it seems so bad today, why you feel so desperate, why everything is crashing down around you, but maybe you've just finally reached your limit. You're exhausted, comebacks and international tours are exhausting and worrying about him is exhausting and trying to convince yourself that all this isn't a bad idea is exhausting. 

You've been feeling like you need to run again, like you can't do this anymore, like you're screwing everything up again and isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this the life you fought for year after year, isn't this why you starved and why you lost touch with friends and family and why you didn't even stop to sleep? You didn't think it would end up like this, chasing success and trying not to destroy everything and still not sleeping. You didn't think you would end up like this, crying on the rooftop of your company, alone in the dark, overwhelmed by feelings for someone in your band. (If you knew it would turn out like this, would you have given up?)

How you got here, why you got here, it doesn't really matter anymore. What matters is what you're going to do in the future, and that's the reason you feel like you're suffocating right now, because you've been thinking and you know this thing doesn't have a future beyond imminent disaster and you should just end it and you would except for one tiny, little problem... you don't seem to want it to end. 

You know he'll be up here soon, you know he'll come to find you as soon as he gets a break, and you don't know how to feel about that, how to respond when he asks you what's wrong, how to convince him that you're okay, how to deal with the fact that he's never seen you this upset before, because you've seen him in states like this and you're still not sure you've figured out the best way to help.  

Once upon a time, before you debuted but after the two of you had started to grow closer, you had found him sitting in the dark, huddled into a corner of the practice room, head buried against his knees. Maybe you should have just left, pretended that you didn't see, trusted him to take care of himself, but you couldn't leave him like that. Maybe you should have turned it into a joke, teased him about being a crybaby, annoyed him until he was too frustrated with you to be upset anymore, but it just didn't feel like the right thing to do. 

You invaded his personal space instead, sat down next to him and rubbed circles into his back, even though it seemed like your presence was only serving to make him feel worse, even though he kept crying harder, you let him cry himself into exhaustion. You thought he might get angry, tell you to leave or try to convince you he wasn't upset at all, but he didn't say a word. You felt almost... prideful that you had gained his trust in such a short amount of time, that he was willing to fall apart at your side. (Maybe you should have tried to figure out why.)

When he had no tears left to shed, you followed him back to the dorm and sat down next to him on the couch. "You don't have to do this, I'm fine," he'd whispered, but you shook your head. "I'm not doing anything, I'm not tired and I want to watch something before I go to sleep. If you don't want to do that, you can go to bed." He'd smiled at you, his eyes swollen and his nose red, and you didn't understand why he was smiling, but you weren't ready to ask him either. (You know your curiosity has always gotten the best of you.) Long before the movie ended, he was passed out against your leg and you thought about carrying him to his room, but decided that would be going a little too far, so you threw a blanket over him and turned off the tv.

The next morning, he tried to avoid you, surely embarrassed by his emotional breakdown, but you didn't let him get away with it, you followed him around all day until he was annoyed enough to stop giving you the silent treatment. "It won't be long until you have to sit through one of my breakdowns and then we'll be even," you assured him, but you didn't actually think it would happen. (You're getting really sick and tired of being wrong.)

It's going to be summer soon, but it's cold and windy on this rooftop, and you notice that the gusts aren't stinging your face anymore because someone is standing across from you and blocking the wind. You wonder how he found you so quickly, why he knew exactly where you'd be, but the answers to those questions are part of the reason why you're here in the first place, so you don't answer them. 

He sits down in front of you, reaches for your hands tentatively, almost gasps when he realizes how cold they are, places them against his chest, under his jacket. You know he's trying to help, but he cares about you too much and he's too good to suffer because of you and it's just making everything worse, you rip your hands away, rotate away from him, try to forget that he's there, try to focus on remembering how to breathe. (In and out or out and in?)

You know he won't leave on his own, and you could order him to, but the part of you that doesn't want him to go is in control right now, and it won't let you do anything except fall apart. "I told everyone you got an emergency phone call and that you might not be back for a while, so we ended practice early," he says, standing up so he can sit back down next to you. "Tell me what you need me to do and I will." You should tell him to leave, but he might actually go and you're not sure you want to risk it, so you ask for something else. "Don't make me talk about it," you tell him, your head down, your eyes closed. "I won't," he agrees. "Anything else?"

"Don't change your mind," you whisper. "Change my mind? About what?" You lean your head against the concrete wall at your back. "About me." You hope he understands, you know he still thinks you're strong and you know that he's come to expect you to protect him and you don't want him to doubt any of those things, you don't want him to realize that you're not worth it, you don't want to break the spell that you've somehow put him under without realizing it. You're not sure why you need him to keep believing that you're worth trusting, that you're worth the effort, that you're worth caring about, but it might be because you don't know if anyone else will start if he stops. (You don't even want anyone else to start.)

He must understand your motivation to some degree because he seems surprised by your request, but all he says is, "I hate changing anyway," and you know that he means it. This has to stop, you know it does, but it just not as easy as you thought it would be. You really thought you could just end it whenever it got to be too much, you really thought you weren't invested at all, you really thought you had everything under control, but you underestimated him, you underestimated your feelings for him, how important he is to you, how much you want this to work. You're an idiot for thinking this was meaningless and he's an idiot for letting you believe it as long as he did. 

You're not even that upset, you're just tired and overwhelmed and stupid, and you don't know where to go from here, but you manage to pull yourself back together. "You wanna get out of here?" you ask him, turning your head to see his face, which still looks worried. It's probably a bad idea, but you don't want to be anywhere right now except with him, so you're relieved when he nods, reaches for your hand, opens the door to the stairwell. 

You end up on a bus with your hand on his knee and his arm linked around yours. He suggests places you could go, states the businesses that are nearest to each stop, like his brain is a smartphone app, but you know exactly where you want to go, you're not sure if you'll be seen or if the two of you could end up in a tabloid in the morning, but you're having an exceptionally difficult time caring right now, even though you know you're being selfish and this might make things worse for him. "Three more stops," you say. "Until what?" he asks, clearly trying to predict your decisions. "Until we get off."

Your stop comes a few minutes later and he follows you off the bus, down the streets, through alleys, and past driveways until you reach a rather modest apartment building. "Please tell me you're not headed to that seedy bar you and your friends like." You point to the building in front of you. "We're here," you announce. "Ah, and where exactly is here?" he asks, but you're too busy deciding whether or not this is a bad idea to answer him. You reach out to grab his hand and lead him up three flights of stairs, stop in front of apartment #11, enter the key code and open the door. 

"Who lives here?" he wonders as you step into the dark apartment. "A friend," you reply, reaching for the light switch. "You have his key code? Exactly what kind of friend is he?" If you weren't so tired, you'd probably tease him and say, _'How do you know he's a he?'_ , but you're too exhausted to joke around, so you don't respond. He moves in front of you and he looks so worried and you feel so guilty for getting him into this mess, you think you might break down again, you know you have to stop thinking or you'll lose everything, you kiss him, you lose yourself in him until you can't remember anything, until you can't think about anything other than his skin. 

You remember just how stupid you're being later on, when you start thinking about how to get home tomorrow without being spotted, but he turns on the tv and snuggles into your chest and you try to focus on him instead of impending doom. "Do you feel any better?" he asks. "A little," you lie, because somehow you think you might actually feel worse. "What do you want to do now?"

"Sleep," you say, and you shouldn't want to do that here with him, but sleep is the only thing that might help right now, so you close your eyes and you don't say anything, because there is nothing left to say. He must not be very tired because he starts babbling about work and new projects he's come up with and how he has a new song to play for you as soon as you're ready, and you know he's just trying to distract you, just trying to distract you from everything you're obsessing about, but you groan and open your eyes. "Not work. If you want to talk, pick something else." It's not like the only reason this is wrong is because you work together, because you live together, but it's definitely on the list and it's the part that makes you most convinced that you should stop. "Like what?"

"Just not work," you tell him, hold his hand tightly so he knows you're not frustrated with him, that you're only upset with yourself. "So did you get your friend's code just to come here with me?" You laugh, because he's not very far off from the truth. "He's been out of town lately because his dad is sick a lot, so he asked me to keep an eye on it. It's not like you need me at the dorm." He disagrees instantly, tells you you're important to the band, but he means you're important to him, and he's not trying to make it worse but you keep feeling more and more guilty. 

"I meant that four people is more than enough to look after a dorm, that's all. I'm not going anywhere," you explain, but his eyes drop down to your interlocked fingers. "Not yet," he whispers, and you know he's thinking about it again, about your duty as a citizen, about how things are about to change regardless of the two of you and whatever you've been doing for the past few months, and he's already reminded you how much he hates change once tonight. "I don't want to talk about that either," you whisper back, and you know this conversation will end here for tonight. 

This apartment will be empty for at least three more days and you're seriously considering going AWOL and spending the whole weekend here with him, until you remember that you've already done enough stupid, reckless things for a lifetime and you should probably try harder to avoid situations that make you stupid and reckless. (Maybe you should have avoided him completely.)

You wake up past 9am and he's no longer next to you, and you start to worry until you hear sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen, and you know he must have already gone to pick up some groceries because last you checked the fridge was only stocked with beer and eggs, and your heart is aching again because this isn't real, this can't be real, this has to stop. He peeks in to see if you're awake a minute later and grins at you, pulls you out of bed, drags you to the table for breakfast. "Did anyone call yet?" He nods. "I told them you're still dealing with a family emergency and that I stayed with an old friend who came into town last night." He looks proud of himself, but all you can think is, Great, now he's lying because of me too. 

"Did you sleep okay?" he asks and you're feeling overwhelmed again, so you nod and silently finish your breakfast. "Is the food that bad?" he asks tentatively. "I'm just tired. Your cooking has gotten a lot better, it's almost edible." He grins again and you wish you could ask him what his secret is, why he seems so unaffected by this whole predicament, but he would think you were asking for all the wrong reasons, so you let him keep it a secret. "Are you ever going to tell me what happened?" he asks quietly, staring at his empty plate. "Nothing happened," you reply tersely. "You don't have to tell me, but don't lie about it. 

"I'm not lying," you insist, leaning back in your chair, "I'm tired, nothing happened." He sighs, stands to clean up the kitchen, turns on the faucet to do the dishes, doesn't look back at you. You follow after a minute, carry your empty plate to him, place it in the sink and wrap your arms around his shoulders, press your face into his neck. "You used to talk to me," he reminds you, and it's true, you did, because you needed him to trust you and you thought entrusting him with information would help him to confide in you as well, and it worked just the way you planned. 

Things are different now, and you don't feel worthy of his trust anymore and you don't trust yourself not to hurt him with your thoughtless words, so you keep it all to yourself. It's not like he's any different, it's not like he tells you what he's thinking or what he wants, he's too busy trying to figure out what you're thinking and what you need for that. (He has you down to a science now and that makes it even harder to stop.)

"I'm sorry," you mumble against his skin. For everything, you add in your mind. "Can't you just tell me? Not why you were upset, just... can you just say something?" You close your eyes, flip through your mind for something to say, past all the meaningless sentiments, desperate to find something real, because this feels real despite your best efforts. "I like you," you say finally, because it's true and it's big enough to distract him from what you're actually thinking. "You like me?" he repeats, and his voice is already shakier than it was a moment ago. "I really like you," you whisper, releasing him from your arms as he turns around to face you, his eyes wide in surprise. "Is that why you're upset?" he says, and why, oh why does he have to know you so well? "Why would that upset me?"

"Because I'm not your type," he concludes and it feels like you've been slapped, you immediately remember the look on his face when you implied he wasn't your type and then implied that he was mere seconds later. "Are you trying to say you don't like me?" you try to joke because you shouldn't have said it in the first place. You're expecting him to fall all over himself trying to explain, but he kisses you instead, because you're not nearly as good at predicting him as you should be by now. 

You end up taking separate buses back to practice, but he's still grinning when you see him in the dance room and you're still exhausted and conflicted, and why does he make your heart feel like this, why is he so good at screwing with your head, is he even trying? 

It's been a long day and he's probably passed out in his studio by now and you don't know how you ended up watching video clips of the two of you on your phone at half past two in the morning, except for the fact that you miss him and you can't go to him, you can't talk to him about this because that would mean something and this can't mean something, it can't. You're just bored, that's all. You're just trying to keep in touch with the state of the fans, that's all. You're just tired, that's all. This doesn't mean anything, it's just late and you can't sleep because he's not here, that's all. (Because it's your job to worry about him.)

He's still hiding it, but he's seemed a little different since you came back from overseas this time, like all the disagreements might finally be getting to him, like this is finally affecting him the way it's been affecting you for weeks, like he might be realizing that this isn't right for him. You knew this would happen eventually, you've been preparing for weeks now, you know this only ends in disaster, so why do you feel so caught off guard? (Why do you feel like you can't breathe every time you think of it?)

There's a part of you that used to believe that you could handle this, that this didn't mean anything, that it was a solution and not a problem, but that part of you was wrong. You know it now, you remember every time you wake up with his head on your chest and your arms around his waist, you were so unbelievably wrong to think this was nothing. (It would have been a lot closer to the truth if you had referred to it as everything.)

It's been growing for weeks, this fear that everything will fall apart, and you've tried to speed it along because waiting for the inevitable explosion is killing you, but you haven't been successful. (Maybe you don't actually want to succeed.) This can't go anywhere, you've always known that, you've always known that the two of you can't possibly have a future, and you thought that telling him that would end it for sure, but all it did was make you think there might be a chance that this could work, a tiny, minuscule chance hardly worth mentioning, but a chance nonetheless. 

You could pretend that this is research, that you're taking the scientific approach to whatever the two of you have going on, but all you seem to figure out is that you're a hell of a lot more obvious than you thought. Do you really look at him that much? Why do you laugh like a complete idiot around him? Is it really necessary to whisper on stage that often? You have to be honest with yourself, you are in over your head. There. You've said it. This is out of control and something needs to change, you just don't know what yet. (Or maybe you're still not ready to admit it.)

You wake up the next morning and realize what you've done, destroy the evidence, wait for him to bring it up, but he doesn't. You're not dumb enough to think that he didn't notice, but you're also not willing to be the one to bring it up. He's acting like nothing happened, nothing at all, and it's stressing you out, you think it might be better if you try to avoid him for a while. 

After practice, your bandmates drag you out for drinks with a side of dinner and you feel warm inside because this is worth it, this is what you wanted, they're more like family than a band, and that's probably why you shouldn't have been willing to risk it all for a hookup, a hookup that doesn't seem like a hookup anymore. He's not drinking again, because he's obviously worried that you'll fall apart again and he wants to be there for you, which is probably kind of sweet but it's making you feel kind of sick because you're wondering what else he's actively giving up for your sake, because he cares about you. (You shouldn't have let it go this far.) 

You don't drink much either, but you're thankful to your bandmates for trying to make you feel better. It's clear that he's still worrying about you, so you're not surprised to find him in your room when you come back from the bathroom. You lay down next to him on your bed, roll on your side to look at him. "I'm fine," you tell him softly. "You sure?" You nod. "But I think we need to take a break."

"What kind of break?" You sigh. "Like we keep our distance until the tour starts up again. It's only a few days." He nods. "I'll keep my distance," he agrees, sitting up, but you grab his hand, pull him back down next to you. "Not yet," you whisper, "I'm not ready yet." He smiles, squeezes your hand, closes his eyes. 

(You know that pausing this isn't going to solve anything but he still looks happy when you're together and he trusts you to protect him and you just can't muster up enough energy to press stop.)


	14. pt. 14

(Kyungil POV)

...

His words are ringing in your ears and it's really getting to you, and you're trying to focus, you're trying to be normal, you're trying to pretend, but you're just getting more and more pissed off. 

As soon as you get off stage, you drag him into the nearest supply closet, lock the door, turn around to face him. "How dare you call yourself mine?" you whisper, angry and feeling strangely exposed. "I am yours," he replies with confidence. "Not out there, not in front of them," you remind him. You know it has to be this way, you think, you know why this works. "They just laughed, it's not like they know anything."

"Really? You sure about that?" He shrugs, moving closer to the wall. "Well, if they do know, it's not my fault now is it?" Shock washes over you, how could he say such a thing, bring that up when you're the one with the right to be angry? "If you missed me," he begins, "you should have found me. You shouldn't let it get to the point where you post something stupid for the whole world to see." You thought you were angry about what he did on stage, but you don't even care about that right now. "We were home, and this doesn't work at home," you say, and he shakes his head. "This doesn't work because you don't talk to me," he counters. "I talk to you all the time!" You think you talk to him too much. "Not about anything real, anything that matters, not anymore. You don't talk about this, or why you're worried, or what you're thinking about, you just... let everything build up and explode all over the Internet in front of everyone and then you pretend it never happened."

You've done that a lot in the past, pulled him into your whirlpool of denial, buried him in words that never should have left your lips, and you're trying not to anymore, but it's easier than facing this, it's easier than having to explain what you feel for him, why you need this to work, why you say just as many stupid things as he does, why you let your words strike him before he sees it coming. (You're not sure why but this still feels smarter than assigning yourselves a label.)

"Like you're any better," you tell him. "Like you've never done anything in public that would suggest that this is more than strictly business." He nods. "Sure, but nothing that obvious. Don't try to deny it, what you did was worse." It's turning into some weird kind of competition, who feels more, who controls himself less, who can be more obvious without getting in trouble and it's exhausting. "If you're so into talking, then why didn't you just get mad at me? You didn't even bring it up!" He sighs. "Well, maybe I don't want this to be a secret anymore, a lot more than you do." You shake your head. "I don't want that at all." 

"Fine. But I do." You roll your eyes. "Not if you understood the consequences if that ever happened." Not if you understood that I can't be the thing that breaks you, you think. "I understand perfectly. You don't need to do that anymore," he replies, moving closer to you. "Do what?" you question, unfortunately still affected by his proximity to you, even after all these months. "Pretend I'm an idiot. Treat me like a child, like someone too naive to look past their actions and see the fallout. You know that's not who I am, it's just easier for you if you believe it." Easy? If only any of this was easy, you want to tell him, but he won't let you get a word in and you know he's been saving this up for a long time. Maybe you should have let him say it before, before it got so intense, so dangerous and risky. (But you were too afraid of what the outcome would be.)

"If you believe that I only want this... you... because I can't see how badly it could turn out, then it'll be easier for you to think it still doesn't mean anything," he explains, and you don't think he understands, you think he's too confident that he knows what you want and why you do the things you do, you think he's making assumptions he has no right to make, but you also think, reluctantly, he has a point. "What about you?" you say, desperate to get the spotlight off yourself. "Why do you use our performances as an opportunity to get a rise out of me? Why do you start saying things you'd never even tell me in private? Why do you deliberately try to set me off in front of hundreds of people?"

"Because I..." he stops, looks at you, his confidence fading, his courage used up. "Because?" you prompt, because you're actually talking about this for once and it's his turn to be honest. "Because if it was ever real out there, in front of people, maybe it wouldn't be so easy for you to take it away whenever you want. Maybe you'd be a little less skilled at pretending." You nod, but you don't really understand. (Because you know you're still pretty terrible at pretending.) "So you're prepared to give all of this up for that? You've finally figured out how to put us on the map, or at least close to it, and you're just gonna give up? For nothing?"

"Not for nothing. For you," he says softly. "Same difference," you mutter, reaching for the door and opening it behind you, retreating into the dressing room, collapsing on the couch with your phone, not looking at him. Not when you get in the van, not when you walk into the hotel lobby, not when you turn right back around and set out to clear your head. 

He doesn't understand, he just thinks he does. He doesn't realize how important it is that he follows his dreams, that he sees this to the end, that he doesn't get distracted by something as ridiculous as having feelings for you. Doesn't he realize that this kind of thing doesn't work? If anyone had proof, if anyone used it against you, if anyone wanted to, they could use it to destroy you, destroy your careers, destroy your relationship. This is not the kind of thing that people overlook or forgive, whether they be fans or the general public, because this kind of thing doesn't happen and they think you owe them something, they think they own you, they think they have a right to control you, dictate what you're allowed to feel. (Who you're allowed to feel it for.)

Why can't he understand that you're doing this for him? You're not sure what you want anymore, what your dream is, but his dream is this, this life, hordes of screaming fans, songs that take over the charts, performances that leave him feeling whole. If he gives up on that dream, if he starts to think his dream has changed, if he believes that his dream is you, you'll only disappoint him. He'd be lying anyway, you see the way his eyes light up when you place on music charts, when crowds chant his name, when senior artists commend him. It gives him a crazy kind of high, and you'll never be able to even come close to making him feel that way. (Even though you keep trying.)

You can't be the reason he gives up, he works so hard, he doesn't sleep and he doesn't have a personal life outside of you right now and you've even started having to remind him to eat again, having to trap him in your arms until he falls asleep, even if it's just for an hour or two at a time, even when you're home. It's just now barely beginning to pay off and he's ready to just give it up, to forfeit, to accept that he's wasted the past three years, just so he can be with you. You can't believe it and you can't allow it and you can't be the thing that comes in between him and his dreams. He's younger than you, there are so many things left for him to see and do and experience, things he deserves to do on his own, without you looming over him every step of the way. (Without having to consider you in his decisions.)

He deserves to date as many people as he wants, to have real relationships and heartbreaks that don't break him and kiss random strangers in random clubs, to be a normal twenty-something for once. (Even if imagining someone else kissing him makes you feel sick.) You think back a few months, back when you were convinced that you could protect him, that you were protecting him, back when you were more willing to lie to yourself. Now you know that the only way to protect him was to keep him at arm's length and it's too late for that now. You can't protect him, so maybe it's time to break his heart. You should have made him hate you a long time ago, maybe it's time for that now, maybe it's the only way you can protect him, protect him from you. But you're not ready, you know even if you convince yourself you are, it'll fade when you see his face. You won't be able to do it, not yet. (Because you're still too selfish to do what's best for him.)

You return to your room after two hours and he's in the bathroom, so you have a minute to sit on your bed and busy yourself with your phone before he comes back out. However, you can't help glancing at him when he does, and he almost looks relieved, like he thought you might be gone forever and it breaks your heart. (You didn't think that could happen anymore.) 

He lays down at your feet, doesn't say anything, just puts his hand on your knee, inching up your thigh slowly. You sigh, picking up his hand and moving it off of you. He gives up easily, settling instead for resting his head on the mattress and holding your hand between his. You lean back on the headboard, read the news on your phone, try to think of what to say to him. 

"I'm sorry," he says, and you know he means it. "I shouldn't have said it, not without telling you first. It was stupid and reckless and I'm really sorry." You turn off your phone, look down at him, remember a time when you said something stupid on stage, something that hurt him. Even though what you said wasn't true, it was still hurtful and you shouldn't have said it in that way, you shouldn't have reacted the way you did. "You know why I got upset, right? You know what could happen if everyone knew, don't you?" He nods. "I can't be... the reason they turn on you," you whisper. "They'd turn on us, though. Not just me."

"I can't let that happen to you, you can't give this up for me," you say, and it doesn't solve anything but it's true. "I don't want you to do that for me either," he agrees, but you don't. You've lived, you've kissed random strangers in clubs, you've worked hard and you have lots of things you could fall back on, but he doesn't. This is it for him, for now at least, and you have no right to take that from him. (To think there was a moment when you started to believe this could work long term.) "I don't think," you begin, your voice choked, "I don't think we can do this anymore."

"Sorry, I can't accept that, try again." You shake your head. "I don't think there's anything left to try," you say. "Not yet," he suggests. "After we go home again, then... then maybe we'll stop for good." You know he's putting it off, delaying the inevitable, but you don't really want this to end on short notice either, so you nod. "After we go home, this has to stop for good. Understand?" He doesn't say anything and you know he's upset, you're upset too, so you whisper _'come here'_ and he crawls into your arms. "This is for the best," you say. It's what's best for you, you don't say. 

You spend the next week getting more and more reckless, locking yourselves up in your room all hours of the day, going out alone after shows, feeling less secretive on stage. Your band, your manager, all your staff have known something's going on for weeks now, maybe longer, and you decide to take advantage of that. (Never mind the fact they could turn against you as easily as anyone could.)

The day before your last shows, he tells a room full of people that he kisses you in your sleep and that's when you know this has to end for sure. Even if it was just a joke, a bit, it wasn't actually a lie and it's only a matter of time before someone realizes it. He knows it too, tells you the second you're back in the hotel. "It's really over after tomorrow, isn't it," he states, not really wanting a response, so you nod and reach for his hands, try to make the most of your last few hours, try to kiss him enough for a lifetime, try not to need a good night's sleep. 

When you wake up the next morning, he's staring at you with that look in his eyes, the one that you never named, the one that tells you you're not nothing, in his eyes at least. (You realize so, so belatedly that he's actually made you believe it.) Useless words swirl around your head, bubble up from your heart, words like _'You are so important to me'_ and _'I think you are unbelievably beautiful'_ and _'If it were up to me I'd never let you go'_. 

You decide saying any of those things would make it worse for both of you, so you resort to actions. You kiss him, urgently, too urgently, and everything feels so real and it has to end and you're so conflicted, and your heart is aching. Your hands run over his skin, committing him to memory. His hands are tugging at your hair and he gasps your name and you start to forget why this has to end, why it has to be over. Your head is filling up again, drowning in things you can't say, things that will only make this harder, things like _'I'm sorry I'm not brave enough for you'_ and _'I'm not ready to lose you'_ and _'I love every inch of you'_ , but you keep them inside, locked in your head where they can only damage you. 

You're supposed to fly out right after your performances, so you pack all your things and leave them for the staff to gather later. He's moving slower than usual and he's not saying anything and you feel awful but you know this is the only way, this is the way you should have been protecting him all along. 

By the end of the first show, it's decided that the weather is too intense to continue with the second, so it gets canceled. It's not that you disagree with the decision, but you're not ready for this to end yet. Your plane doesn't leave for hours, so you figure you have enough time to sneak off somewhere air conditioned, somewhere you can be alone one last time before you have to close this chapter of your life for good. 

You hold his hand under the table and he looks about as miserable as you feel and you try to be positive, try not to say all the unwise, emotional, sappy things running around in your head. "You can't change your mind later," he says. "If this is really over, you can't take it back." You nod. "It's really over," is all you can say. (You want to say more, but there's no point.) When you get home, you decide, you'll leave him alone. You won't interact except strictly for work purposes and as little as possible even then. You won't call or text, you'll give him space, you'll give yourself some space. It's not going to be easy, but it's the only way, you decide, repeat it like a mantra until you believe it. (You don't believe it yet, but you will.)

You've been holding back your thoughts all day, but you start to panic when you remember what you said months ago, something you feel like you never actually apologized for. "You know I didn't mean what I said in London, right?" you blurt out, tripping over your words and squeezing his hand even tighter. "You know I just reacted, I didn't mean to hurt you. You know you're... you know my answer's the same as yours, don't you?" If you had said this a month ago, he would have made some joke like, _'Oh really? Your ideal type is you?'_ but things have changed since last month and he just nods sadly. "Not that it matters anymore," is all he can say. "It matters."

"No, it doesn't," he whispers, his words landing like a knife in your chest. You look at the clock, you know it's time to go, time to end this, once and for all. You stand from the table, use his hand to pull him close to you, look deep into his eyes, look for a way to make this stop, kiss him instead. He backs away far too soon, lets go of your hand, walks out in front of you, gets in the taxi he hails, closes the door. Final. It's over. The door is closed, locked, barricaded. 

(He looks at you as the plane lands and he doesn't blink and his eyes are red and you're pretty sure this is what dying feels like.)


	15. interlude: yj, ii

(Yijeong POV)  
...  
_This is a hookup,_ you decide weakly. This is what a hookup feels like. This is everything it never was before, because this is all about need and lust and pent-up frustration and it's not about you anymore, it's all about him, it's about what he needs from you, and maybe he doesn't even need it from you specifically, maybe you're just the easiest option, but you give him what he needs anyway because maybe a twisted, broken part of you needs that too, needs to let him use you, because this isn't real and maybe he never wanted you specifically after all. 

He always used to talk about what you deserve, but he was wrong, you know that this is precisely what you deserve, what you've always deserved. You don't deserve whispered confessions and late night movie dates and lazy Sunday mornings and breakfast in bed, you don't deserve to feel like he might actually care about you more than he's required to, you don't deserve to feel secure and warm and maybe almost loved. You know exactly what you deserve, you deserve to cry about this later, after he's gone, because you're still wondering if this might be better than nothing at all, you're still wondering if he might have meant it sometimes, you know that you bring all of this on yourself and you have to accept the consequences of your actions. 

Tonight marks the first night you've been completely alone in the dorm since you came back home and, coincidentally, tonight also marks the first and only time you've hooked up since you got home, and you're using that term for once because that's exactly what this is. You were working the way you have been for weeks now, not stopping for anything, and you weren't planning on stopping tonight, until he wordlessly entered your studio, reached for your hands, pulled you to your feet, led you to his room. "This doesn't mean anything," he told you, waited for you to confirm it, and it's not really that you didn't agree, but you felt powerless anyway, you always give in when it's him because it's... him. Now you might regret it a little, because this is the way it was supposed to be all along, and maybe you could accept that if it wasn't for the fact that it wasn't like this until tonight, and that knowledge just makes you feel worse. 

When you feel used up, when he's done with you, he doesn't say anything. He gathers his clothes and gets dressed while you stare up at the ceiling, empty, hollow, and you knew this would happen, you know this is the only option, you know this is all you get to be to him now, you know that this isn't about you anymore, if it ever was at all. You don't think he'll say anything, you think he'll leave you here alone with your thoughts, but he's always defying your expectations and that's why this is so hard. 

"I'm gonna spend a few days with my friends," he begins, "and when I get back, we can just forget about this, okay?" He hasn't looked you in the eye for a long time and he's not about to start now, so you can't just nod, you have to speak even though you don't trust your voice to hold steady right now, you don't trust yourself to be strong. "Okay," you whisper, but you know he heard you because he says, "Then it's settled," and leaves the room. 

 _It's fine,_ you tell yourself, _this is how it should have been the whole time, this is how you keep it under control._ (This is what you deserve.)

You lock yourself in your studio, bury yourself in work, try to forget about him, about everything, and it's almost working until your phone lights up as it receives a text message. You know who it's from, you try to ignore it, but your curiosity wins out. _'Are you okay?'_ it reads and you've never felt more unsure of how to answer that question. When you don't respond, he texts, _'I'm sorry,'_ but it just makes you feel worse because you don't want him to feel guilty, because this isn't his fault, you're to blame for this, you've always held the blame for this. You let this happen, you let yourself believe that this meant something, because you wanted it to mean something, because it meant something to you. 

If you don't reply to his messages, he will call you and you can't handle hearing his voice right now, so you have to reply, you have to acknowledge him so he knows you're okay, or at least okay enough to pretend you are. _'Have fun with your friends,'_ you type, press send, wonder if he'll be satisfied with your answer, but that's irrelevant because it's the only answer you have right now. He texts back, _'I'll see you Monday'_ and that's the end of it. 

Your remaining bandmates are tiptoeing around you, making sure you eat, making sure you sleep, and you're not sure if they're doing it on their own or if they've been recruited to keep you alive while he's gone all weekend. You wish he trusted you more, you wish he recognized that you can take care of yourself, but the truth is that you did forget to eat and you haven't slept in 24 hours and you do bury yourself in work when you're upset, so maybe he's right not to trust you. 

Monday morning rolls around before you realize it and you're dreading it, you don't want to see him because you can't predict what he'll do, if he'll want to talk or if he'll ignore you or if you'll wind up sleeping with him again. You're working when he gets home, not that it's anything unexpected, but you think he'll wait awhile before he comes to see you, so you're surprised to find him standing in front of you before he's even taken off his jacket. 

"How long has it been since you slept?" he demands. "I've only been up for an hour," you say, not looking up from your phone. "What about lunch? It's past lunchtime." You look at the time and sigh. "I'm not hungry, I've only been up for an hour." He sits down on the couch and takes off his jacket. "You'll be happy to hear that I've come up with a plan." You look up at him despite yourself. "Everyone is busy tonight," he continues, "so the dorm will be empty except for you and me."

"That's your brilliant plan?" you say. "I never said it was brilliant." He looks down at his lap, away from you. "Do you really want that to be the last time?" No. No, you don't. You just think it'll just make it harder to accept if it isn't. "This is really the last time?" He nods. "The last time." He stands up, walks closer to you. "But first, lunch." You save your work, stand up from your office chair and look at him, and you realize that you didn't realize how much you missed him until you saw his face. "What do you feel like eating?" 

"You pick," he tells you. "I'm not hungry, you pick." He won't pick either so you end up on a walk to the closest convenience store to buy a probably unhealthy lunch. He seems different, he seems like he's found some sort of solution to your dilemma, he seems like he missed you, because he keeps touching you and he hasn't done that in awhile, and he seems happier even if you still feel kind of sick about everything, and his indifference isn't making you feel any better. 

"What did you work on while I was gone?" he asks as he starts to eat. "Nothing special," you reply. "What did you do while you were gone?" He shrugs. "Slept and watched movies and... drank a little." You nod, get started on your lunch even though you're not hungry. He finishes his food and he's staring and you ask him to stop, but he doesn't, he just keeps on staring, and it feels like his gaze might burn a hole through your skin. "Is there something on my face?"

"No, I just... I'm really sorry," he says, lowers his head and finally stops staring. "Don't apologize," you whine. "Why not?" You sit back in your chair, lose the rest of your appetite. "Because it's not your fault." He shakes his head. "I... I manipulated you, it's absolutely my fault." He reaches out towards your hand, but you pull it away. "You didn't have to manipulate me. I could have stopped it, I  just... didn't."

"It's not your job to stop it, I'm the one who's supposed to look out for you, I'm not supposed to be so selfish. I screwed up and you're the one who has to deal with it and I'm sorry." You gather half-empty containers from the table, look away from him, busy yourself with a repetitive task. "Are you ignoring me now?" he says, and he actually sounds hurt, so you sit back down. "Do you want me to pretend that I'm fine with this? Because I'm not," you say, trying to act cold so that you don't do something you'll regret, like start crying. "That's why I'm trying to apologize for this weekend."

"I'm not talking about that. I mean... this whole thing, giving up. I know you don't care, but it's not that easy for me." You cross your arms, try to stare a hole into the table. "I care. Hey," he says, waiting for you to look at him, which you do reluctantly. "It's not easy for me, it's just the only way." You scoff, because you still feel like he's lying, like everything has been one gigantic lie. "That's what makes it easy, because you think it's the right thing to do." 

"You don't?" he says, and he seems genuinely surprised. "I don't know what to think anymore." You stand up, finish cleaning up the remainder of your meal. "It's too hot, we should go home." He stands up, following your orders for once. He doesn't try to talk on the walk home, and you didn't think he would, but he keeps 'accidentally' touching you and you're pretty sure he's staring again because he keeps looking away when you turn around. 

The dorm is empty when you get back and you're feeling sick again because this was supposed to be over, this was supposed to have ended a month ago, you weren't supposed to have to go through it again, and you know that you could just take it back, say that the last time was the last time, but you're not over him yet, even though you've been trying, and you don't want to end this on a bad note, even if it is the smartest option. "So what now?" he says, stepping closer to you and smiling. "I know you kind of hate me right now, but that doesn't mean we can't..." 

"I don't," you interrupt. "I don't hate you, I'm just not sure I'm ready for this to end yet." He nods slowly, reaches up to the collar of his shirt, pops open a button. "What about now?" he asks innocently, undoes another button, asks again. You smile, you're trying not to let this work, but it is working, and this isn't manipulation, this isn't about him, it's about you and it's about the fact that he can't just take what he wants from you and not feel guilty and that you still feel like you should take what you can get while you still have the chance, it's about the simple fact that you love him even though you can't say it out loud, you love him no matter how you try to stop, you love him and this is the only way you get to pretend he might love you too. "How about this?" he tries, unzipping his jeans. "You're ridiculous."

"Then what do you suggest?" he says, laughter in his eyes, and you know what you want, you know where you want this to go, and even though it's not going to make this easier, this really has to be the last time so you'd better make it count. "Kiss me?" He smiles. "That's it? I thought you'd ask for something a little more challenging than that." You chuckle. "Well, that's just step one. Wait 'til I tell you all the other steps—" and you'd tease him some more, but he takes a step closer to you, cups your face in his hands and kisses you for what feels like the first time in years, so you let it go for now. 

Later on, when the sun has set and the stars are shining and the moon is beaming soft light through the window, you start to think this is completely unfair. It's unfair that the night is clear and beautiful, it's unfair that this isn't real, it's unfair that you have to give him up, it's unfair that you have to pretend that it was meaningless, because even if he didn't feel a thing, even if it didn't mean anything to him, not even for a second, it meant everything to you and so it has to count for something, but it might not and that's not fair. Why don't you deserve him? Why do you deserve to suffer for this, for feeling like this? It's unfair and falling for him isn't your fault but letting this happen is, so you suppose you deserve this after all. 

He's holding you in his arms and he keeps kissing your shoulder and you can tell that he still feels bad about what happened on Friday because he kept asking you if you were okay and he's still doing it every few minutes. The next time he asks, you say, "Stop asking me that, you're making me self-conscious." He nods slowly. "You should date someone," he adds abruptly. "You want me to date?" He shrugs. "Don't you want to date someone?" You shake your head. "Not someone," you whisper and he closes his eyes for a long beat. "Are you gonna date someone?" you ask because he's not saying anything. "I don't have the time. If I did... not someone." Your heart is breaking because you don't know if it's true, you don't know if he's messing with you again, but you still want to trust him, trust that he's not over this either. "Maybe you'll have time someday."

"Yeah, maybe," he mutters, but he doesn't believe it and you don't either, because time is probably the easiest obstacle for the two of you to overcome. "So, this is it," he says, his voice clearer. "Yeah," you reply because you don't know what you should be saying. "Any last requests?" Your throat is closing up because you're holding back the flood that is forming behind your eyes and your head hurts because this is really, actually, permanently ending this time, you can't pretend anymore, you have to stop and you have to move on with your lives, and your heart hurts because he's still holding you and his hair is tickling your cheek and he looks at you like this is hurting him too and this is too much, it's too hard, it's so unfair, and it's all your fault, and you deserve to suffer. 

"Can you just... tell me if I was crazy?" you whisper. "Crazy how?" You close your eyes, try to hold yourself together. "Crazy for thinking that this wasn't all me?" You think he might not understand what you're asking, you think he might turn it into a joke, you think he might actually think you are, but all he says is, "You are not crazy." You nod, you have to stop talking, now is not the time to be upset, time is running out, you have to make it count, you can't waste this. "That's all you wanted?"

"What about you? Do you have anything to ask?" He shakes his head, kisses you instead, and you're really going to miss this, you're really starting to regret not doing this more often, you think he was right to always want to forgo talking because talking doesn't ever actually change anything, so you guess talking doesn't really matter, but you're pretty sure this does. "So, what are we now? What do we do now?" He's asking because he wants to know what you need from him, how you need him to treat you, if you need space or time or some combination of both, but you don't know what you need, or maybe what you need doesn't line up with your circumstances, so you don't have much to say. "I know it's a cliche, but I still want us to be friends."

"Right away?" he asks, and you're not sure if he's asking for your sake or his. "Don't ignore me and don't avoid me and don't treat me like I'm going to shatter." That's what he's been doing since you ended this the first time and it makes you feel like you can't breathe, losing him completely is more than you can take. "Only if you stop looking at me like a kicked puppy," he says, and you laugh, curl yourself against his chest, kiss his skin, and it's not because it's funny because none of this is funny, but it's real and it's ending and you just want a minute, just another minute to pretend like he isn't simultaneously the best and the worst thing that has ever happened to you. "I'm serious," he says, "don't use those kind of powers on me, or I can't be held responsible for the consequences."

"I'll try my best," you mumble because your face is still pressing up against his skin. He's playing with your hair and you're really, really going to miss this, you're really, really going to miss believing that he cares about you, and you're really, really going to miss knowing that he'll always be there when you need him, because this is ending fast and you can't stop it, you can't do anything except try not to embarrass yourself for five more minutes. "Is that really all you wanted to say?" He sighs, kisses the top of your head. "I don't think you want to hear the rest of it." You sit back up to look at him, hold his hand. "Speak now or forever—"

"It wasn't always an accident. Telling you that I... sometimes it wasn't an accident, and I'm sure you know this by now, but it wasn't... it wasn't a lie either." Your heart is starting up again, beating faster and faster, making you feel like you might pass out. "You're not crazy and you never were," he continues, "and I want you to promise me that you know, that you believe it." You've been holding back the waterworks for weeks, but it was all for nothing because the tears that have been gathering are spilling over, your vision is starting to blur, and you want to stop it, but you can't, and you want to run away and hide, but you're still not ready to acknowledge that this is the end. You look down and he squeezes your hand. "Don't cry," he whispers, "I'm not worth crying over."

"Don't say that, I wouldn't be doing it if you weren't," you snap, lift your eyes to meet his, tears of anger mixing with ones of sorrow. He looks away, nods slowly, bites his lip, looks back at you. "I told you didn't want to hear the rest," he says sheepishly. "Then you should have kept it to yourself!" He chuckles, wraps you in his arms, kisses your hair and rubs your back. "So was this really worth it? Even knowing it has to end like this?" You nod, because your voice isn't really working anymore and you don't have anything to say except yes. "Good."

You manage to stop crying for a moment, pull away to kiss him for the last time, try to make it count. He smiles at you, tears forming in his own eyes, gets out of bed and remembers that most of his clothes are strewn across the living room, so he can't prolong this anymore. "If you need some space, I can go away again," he suggests, but you shake your head. "That'll just make it harder when you get back."

"Okay," he agrees. He leaves your room, closes the door behind him, and you think it's really over, but the door opens less than a minute later and you can't say a word before he crosses the room and he's kissing you again, and maybe you should believe when he says this isn't easy for him, because his lashes feel damp as they brush across your face and his eyes are red when he pulls away. "I'm still sorry," he whispers, leaves before you can answer. 

(You know it's the right thing because it hurts so much and you know it was worth it because you get to keep the memories forever even if you can't have him and you know you'll never be the same because you've never felt this devastated in your life.)


	16. pt. 16

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
It's been a week, eight days to be exact, but that doesn't matter because you're not counting. It's been a week since the last 'last time' and you've been keeping yourself away from the dorm as much as possible and he's just thrown himself into work again, because that's how you both cope with this, with everything that's happened over the past nine months. You're not ignoring him and you're trying not to treat him any differently than you did before, but your heart still aches when you see him and you still reach toward him before you can stop it and you sometimes find yourself staring at him a little too long for it to be considered normal. All things considered, things could be going worse. (Of course, they could be going better too.)

You're trying to maneuver situations so that you don't have to be alone together more than necessary, you spend as much time with your friends and even your other bandmates as you can manage, because you're liable to screw up again if you don't. He's not totally back to normal either, he doesn't look at you much and he doesn't ask questions just so he can talk to you and he doesn't laugh at your jokes or put his hands on you, like you were just a bad habit that he's broken completely. You know that can't be true, you know he's still hurting, you know his heart aches too, but he's always been better at accepting the way things are between you and you shouldn't be surprised that he still is. (You should probably accept that things will never be normal between you again.)

You're still thinking about the future, the future of your band, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't think of his future too, his future without you. You do realize, in order for him to have a future without you, he's going to have to meet someone else and kiss someone else and sleep with someone else, and you can live with that if you don't have to be around when he does. It's not like he's ready yet, he probably doesn't even know anyone he'd consider dating, but it will happen and you will hear about it and you will have to pretend that it's not a big deal, because you think it might be a big deal for a lot longer than you'd like. (Maybe forever.)

It's not like you haven't thought about it, asking one of your friends to set you up with someone, anyone, just so you can stop thinking about him, but that wouldn't really be fair to the other person and you haven't been on a blind date in a really long time anyway, you probably wouldn't know what to do or say. (Never mind the fact that you have absolutely no desire to date anyone your friends could come up with right now.) It's been a while since you actually dated someone, and it doesn't seem appealing anymore. 

One night, you get home much later than you planned and you think everyone must be asleep, but you notice the glow of the tv as soon as you walk in. You're not sure who would be in the living room at this time of night, but you're really not expecting it to be him until you see him lounging on the couch, watching some kind of documentary. You think about sneaking past him to your room, but he asked you not to avoid him or treat him like he's something fragile, so you decide to deal with it head on, you sit down next to him on the couch instead, leave as much space between you as possible. (It's not nearly far enough.)

"You finally managed to stay awake for an entire movie," you tease as the credits roll on the screen. "It's not the first time," he tells you, and your mind is overwhelmed with memories of a darkened theater and lips on skin. "The first time you've stayed up for a movie you were actually watching," you compromise. He looks away from you, picks up his phone and turns on the display. "You were out late," he points out. "Is that a problem?" He looks at you, hard, obviously thinking about how to respond. "Of course not," he finally says, standing up from the couch. "Good answer."

He sighs and walks over to turn off the tv, his eyes sleepy and swollen, and you think you finally understand what he's been doing, and you feel like an ass for snapping at him. "Were you... waiting for me?" you ask. "It's almost four, I thought—" he stops, his face lit up blue by the tv screen. "I should have told you guys I'd be late." He shrugs. "No one cared but me anyway, it would have been a waste of time."

"It's selfish to make you worry about me. I'll make sure to tell you next time." He nods, turns off the tv, stumbles toward the hallway. "Will you tell me?" He turns back around and you can just barely make out his silhouette in the dark. "I'm never out this late," he reminds you. "But if you were," you explain, "would you tell me?" He hesitates longer than you thought he would before whispering, "Yes." He returns to finding his room in the dark and you lean further into the couch. It's never been this hard to interact with him, you always got along well, too well, and that's all for nothing now. 

You don't have a lot of schedules together at the moment, but you know there will be a few coming up, you know you have to keep working if you want to hold on to your recent success in the industry, and while that doesn't seem to be a problem for him, you're already tired just thinking about promoting again, because promoting means hotel rooms and alone time and loneliness and danger, and you won't break the rules, you won't go to him, but if he ever came to you, if he ever showed up in your space, you think you'd be helpless to resist. 

Sometimes you wish you could see into his mind, read his thoughts, figure out what he wants from you now, figure out how to make this easier on the both of you, but you suspect that he doesn't have any more answers than you, and you can't read his mind anyway. Basically, the whole situation sucks and it's not getting any better, or any easier, and sometimes it's really hard to remember why you were so convinced that ending this was the right thing to do, but you know you did it for him and that's a good enough reason. 

Sometimes you think he does things on purpose, just to frustrate you, just to make you regret giving him up. (He doesn't have to do anything to make you regret it.) Sometimes you really think he's going to die of exhaustion, and you don't really know what to do about it because you're trying not to cross any lines, and you're having a hard time remembering how you used to handle things, how you used to get him to eat or sleep, before your methods involved things like taking him out to dinner and locking him up in your arms and distracting him with your lips. (Your normal methods never worked as well as those.)

Sometimes, despite your best efforts, the two of you do end up alone, sometimes in the dorm, sometimes at the company practice rooms, sometimes in his studio, and you think you might break, you think you might revert to your old ways, you think you might forget to think before you act, so you follow his lead, because you know his plans are always more effective than yours. He still looks depressed and you still feel depressed and if this is really the right thing for him, then why does he seem so different? You were really hoping everything could go back to normal, but everything still feels wrong, and you don't know if there is any way to make it right again. 

Another night, he finds you drunk-cooking at 2am while he's on his way to grab something to drink. He sits down at the table and watches as you burn various meats in a pan, watches as you messily chop up vegetables, watches as you accidentally slice open your hand, rushes to your side, hisses your name in anger. He makes you sit down at the table, grabs the first aid kit from the bathroom, tends to your self-inflicted wound. 

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks quietly, trying to stop the bleeding, pressing a little harder than he needs to. "I don't know," you mumble, "I couldn't sleep." He sighs, disinfecting your hand and calling you a baby when you recoil at the sensation. "Then you should have watched tv or something." He bandages up your hand, his fingers lingering against your skin as he smoothes down the adhesive edges, his eyes focused on his task. "It's not very deep, I think you'll survive," he mutters, avoiding your eyes, "but why did you get so drunk?" He looks up at you, but you know he's not really asking because he doesn't really want to know, so you shrug. "Bored, I guess."

"Well, next time you're bored and drunk, try to stay away from sharp objects." He packs everything back into the first aid kit and stands up from his chair. "Let's get you to bed," he says, reaching for your arm and pulling you to your feet. You balance your weight against his side, lean into his shoulder, allow him to lead you to your room. He helps you to your bed and sits down next to you, a little tired from supporting your weight, from always being there when you need him. (He's probably gotten used to it.)

Your head is fuzzy from alcohol and blood loss and him, mostly him because his hair is messy and his eyes are sleepy and he smells like soap and fabric softener and home and he hasn't looked at you for this long in ages and you feel it building, the words you aren't supposed to say, the words that only hurt him, the words that can't fix anything. You stop some of them, shoving them back down into your heart, burying them in your mind, but some of them are too strong for you, some of them escape before you can hold them back. 

"I want to kiss you so bad right now," you hear yourself say, and you know that's how you feel, but you don't even feel like you're the one who said it. He looks away from you and closes his eyes, opens them slowly. "Don't," he pleads softly. "I won't, I just want to," you explain, like that makes it any easier, like that makes it any less true. "Why?" he whispers, returning his eyes to you and you can tell that he already regrets asking, but you're going to answer him anyway. "I've kissed a whole lot of people, like a lot of people," you slur and he rolls his eyes like he should have expected this, "but I think you're the best."

He coughs and you know you're going to regret your honesty in a matter of hours, but it seems like the right thing to say right now. "You're drunk," he says, shoving your shoulder and standing up from your bed. "Sure, but I'm not lying." He starts to leave and you should let him, but you're not ready for him to go, so you stop him. "What about me? Where do I rank?" you say and he rolls his eyes as he starts to answer. "Bronze medal," he replies and you have to think for a second to remember what that means, count to three on your fingers. "Third place?" you confirm in horror and he chuckles softly. "Don't you want to know how many contenders you beat?"

"Not many," you mumble, flopping down on your back, radiating disappointment. "Enough. You beat out enough of them," he explains, but you've known him since he was practically a kid and you can't imagine that he's kissed more than a handful of people, so it doesn't feel like an accomplishment to you at all. "Did I at least outrank the girls?" He laughs again, for real this time, and tells you to "shut up and go to sleep," before he leaves the room. 

You wake up the next morning to find a bottled water and some Aspirin on your nightstand next to a notecard with a childish depiction of a gold medal scrawled on the front and it takes you a moment to remember that you're well on your way to screwing everything up again, so you leave again, you don't come back for hours, for days at a time. You avoid him even though you know it's not what he wants, even though you know he'll hate you for it, but this might be easier if he hated you, so you let him.

Eventually, you have to go back home and you have to sleep in your bed and you have to see him, you have to let him ask you questions and look at you and frown in concern for you, even if it makes you feel like you're dying. "Why were you gone so long this time?" You ignore him. "Did you... meet someone?" he asks nervously. "Maybe I did," you respond, because it's not exactly a lie, you could have met someone, you could have feelings for someone that's not him, you could be over him by now. "Oh," he says, "well, congratulations." 

He seems genuine enough and he turns away from you and it's like everything is ending all over again and it's too much to bear. "You don't care?" you blurt out and he turns around. "If you met someone that makes you happy, that's all that matters to me." He probably thinks he's being mature, generous, he probably thinks this makes him a good person, that he gets some sort of cosmic bonus points for his good deeds, but you think he's ridiculous, and more than that, you think he's lying. (Even if he's lying, you should pretend he's not.) 

"Yeah, right," you scoff. "What?" He looks confused, so you decide to explain. "You don't have to lie, I know you don't mean it. I know you don't want me to be happy." He rolls his eyes. "Then why do you think I let this end? Why do you think I didn't fight it? It's because it was what you wanted and because you were never going to believe that things between us could work out." You're stunned by his confession of sorts, and you know he can see it all over your face. "No, it's because I did it for you! I did it because it's what's best for you, because I can't make you happy and you deserve to be happy."

"But it's over and you ended it and I let you, and that's it! That's the end. Now you can be happy without me." You shake your head, feeling unsure of yourself, like you might have done the wrong thing. "No, now you can be happy without me." He walks closer to you, his expression hard and determined, and you're not sure where this is going, but you have no choice but to let him do it anyway. He looks you in the eyes and says, "Do I seem happy to you?" 

"Maybe not, but it's not my fault anymore." He looks away from you, clears his throat. "I was happy," he whispers, "weren't you?" You think it's your turn to lie, you think you're supposed to make sure that the two of you don't fall back into your old patterns, you think this is another chance to protect him from harm. (To protect him from you.) "I haven't been happy in years," you say, and his eyes snap back to yours, tears welling up in his eyes, and he must know you're lying, he must know you're making it up, but he looks like he might believe you. "Now maybe I can be happy again," you continue, brushing past him and walking down the hall. 

(This is how you protect him, this is how you take care of him, this is how you make sure that he gets the future that he deserves, and if that means destroying yourself in the process, then so be it.)


	17. pt. 17

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
The shrill ring of your cellphone rouses you from your slumber. Practice at 10am, the screen reads. You dismiss the alarm and unlock your phone to check the news, but you don't make it that far, distracted by the faces in the background of your home screen. Your heart clenches every time you look at that particular photo. You really should have changed it by now. You remember the day he took it, the day you changed your wallpaper for the first time in months. (The old picture was one that you had taken when he wasn't looking, his silhouette barely discernible against the city sky.)

It was your first day off in what felt like forever and you had found him in the kitchen late one morning, gorging himself on an extensive breakfast of carbs, and you had asked him if everything was okay. He just smiled up at you and kept on eating. "You're gonna make yourself sick," you said, but he didn't seem to care, just kept looking at you with a embarrassed grin on his face. He shoveled another spoonful of food into his mouth and looked up just in time to see you snap a photo of him and smile cheekily. 

"Delete that!" he demanded urgently as he jumped up from his chair. "Go right ahead," you offered, sliding your phone into your back pocket. He sighed and moved closer to you, reached around your waist to retrieve your phone, but he wasn't fast enough because you tilted his chin up, bent down to kiss him before he could say anything. 

You felt him grasp around for your phone and pull it from your pocket before he broke the kiss to delete the apparently embarrassing picture you'd just captured. His finger hovered over the button that confirmed his decision to erase it forever, he looked up at you, and you could see him remembering the last time you had a disagreement about photographing him. "Unless you want to keep this one too..." he added quietly. "You can delete it."

"Are you sure?" You nodded. "But only if you take a better one to replace it." He smiled, deleted the photo, turned the camera on himself, angled it to capture the both of you. You leaned forward, and he laughed at your attempt at being polite. "No matter how big you make your face look, it's not going to matter," he said, still chuckling. "Do you want me to stop?" He shook his head, snapped a few pictures of the two of you, saved the best one to your gallery. "There. Isn't that better than a picture of me chewing?" You shrugged, returned your phone to your pocket. "I guess."

You're still wondering if that day was the start of something new, something destructive, because he only took the picture, you're the one who wanted to stare at it so much that you made it your permanent phone background. (It might be the only part of this that ever had any hope of being permanent.)

It's been weeks since the two have you have talked and you don't know where to start, but you're going overseas again in a few weeks and you have to pretend, for the sake of your job, for the fans, you have to lie and say that everything is okay, and you need a plan, and he's always got a plan, so the two of you have to talk. The problem is that he actually does hate you now and he doesn't want to talk to you, so you need a plan in order to figure out his plan. 

You thought you could use your powers of leadership to force him to tell you anything you wanted, but that sort of approach just makes you feel guilty now. You consider getting him drunk first, but you don't see that ending well for either of you. You think about bribing him, but he's not very big on gifts and you wouldn't even know what he would want. Eventually, you decide on calling a 'team meeting' in the practice room but only telling him about it. He's not surprised at first, he thinks the others must be running late, but he soon realizes that you've led him into some kind of trap. (Because you're a coward.)

"We need a plan," you say. "No one else is coming, are they," he says flatly. "We have to leave whatever happened between us in the past and keep it from interfering on stage," you explain bluntly. "Whatever happened between us," he mumbles, "of course." He sits down across from you on the floor. "We need a brilliant plan and I've already proven that is not my department." He swallows hard, remembers your not-so-brilliant plan, looks down at the floor. "It's work, so we work. Do you remember how to do that?" 

"It involves a lot of this," you say, reaching out an arm and resting it on his shoulder, fingers grazing his neck. He shakes your arm off, slides further back from you. "Right. A lot of unnecessary closeness. We turn it on when we go on stage and we turn it off the second we step off." You nod carefully, formulating your thoughts into sentences that will make your concerns clear to him. "You gonna be okay with that? Turning it on and off?"

"I have to be. What about you?" You lean back on your arms. "I'll be fine," you assure him confidently, but you're faking it because you're still having a hard time being in the same room with him and touching him and whispering a little too closely might be too much, but he's right because it's the only option. "So will I," he says, standing up from the floor. "Is that all you wanted?"

"Are you hungry?" you ask, because you're sure he hasn't eaten dinner yet and you still feel guilty for lying to him, even if you're doing for his sake. "Not really," he replies, "but I don't think you care." You spring up from the floor, dust off your jeans. "Nope," you confirm. "Pick any restaurant you want, I'm buying."

You end up eating chicken, again, because he likes this restaurant and he's comfortable here and he also knows that you're not much of a fan, so it's the perfect choice. Or it was the perfect choice until he starts to remember the last time the two of you came here alone. You can see it on his face, you know he's thinking about the first time the two of you made up, you can tell because you know him, and you're thinking about it too. He orders an insane amount of food because you're paying and he's always been good at finding vaguely passive aggressive ways to punish you and make you feel guilty. (Guilt is a constant state for you now.)

He's drinking a lot more than you thought he would, because even after everything you've put him through, even after all the lies you've told him, he still trusts you, more than you trust yourself. He eats until you're sure he must be feeling sick, but it gives him a reason not to talk to you, so he probably thinks it's worth it. He doesn't seem drunk when you leave the restaurant, but as you walk back to the dorm, the alcohol is his system seems to kick in and he start stumbling into your side every few steps. (Why does your heart feel so jumpy?)

The dorm appears to be empty when you walk through the door and you're not sure if that's a good thing or not, because the last thing you need is another lecture from one of your bandmates but at the same time, being alone with him is second to last. You drag him to his room, drop him on his bed, resist when he tries to pull you down with him, look away from the hurt that flashes across his eyes as he collapses onto his mattress. "You meant it," he whispers, closing his eyes. "Meant what?" you ask, even though you shouldn't want to know the answer. "When you said you weren't happy."

"Oh," you say without thinking. "I thought maybe," he whispers, trailing off, and he looks so sad and so tired and it's your fault, everything is your fault, and you stop thinking, you start acting, you sit next to him and lean down to run your hand through his hair slowly, hopefully soothingly, and your heartbeat is going haywire because you know you're only going to make this worse, and also, you're realizing now that you really, really missed him. He leans into your touch, closes his eyes tighter. "I'm sorry," he apologizes quickly, "I'm so, so, so, so sorry." 

"Stop," you whisper, because he's not the one who deserves to feel sorry and the only reason he feels sorry is because of a lie that you told him, a lie that he believed. "I was wrong to say that, even if it was the truth." Which it definitely wasn't. He shakes his head and opens his eyes to look up at you. "You should have told me sooner, I would have tried harder." He's so earnest and it's killing you, because he couldn't have tried any harder and he didn't need to try at all and you've done it again, you've hurt him again, and you promised yourself you'd stop doing that, you're back to breaking all your promises again, you should just stop making them. "You were never the problem," you tell him softly, you think he deserves a break from your lies. "Then what was the problem?"

"I was, it didn't work because of me," and this time you're not lying. "You're just trying to make me feel better," he mutters, closing his eyes once more. "No, it's the truth." He reaches out to lay his hand on your waist, so tentatively it makes your heart ache. "I miss you," he whispers. "Me too," you whisper in response, almost silently mouthing the words, but he hears you anyway. "I don't want to pretend on stage," he adds, his voice a little stronger. "You don't have to, we just can't be too obvious that we're not... like that anymore." He nods, his hand sliding off your waist and down your middle as he starts to nod off. You attempt to shift your weight into a more comfortable position, but he grabs a fistful of your shirt and opens his eyes desperately. "Don't leave me," he pleads softly and you manage to force a smile. "I'm not."

His grip relaxes and he closes his eyes, struggling to stay awake. "Just until I'm asleep," he whispers, and everything about him betrays just how exhausted he is, and you couldn't leave even if you wanted to. You stroke his hair and you let yourself look at him for the first time in weeks and you didn't know your heart could keep breaking, you didn't know you had any further to fall, you don't know how to do this anymore. 

You're exceptionally tempted to wait here until you accidentally fall asleep next to him, but you don't, you get up slowly so he doesn't wake up and you try everything you can think of to distract yourself, but you have to face it, you're miserable and you can't do anything about it. 

You have lots of rehearsals planned for your next show, so you try his method of coping, you throw yourself into work, you sing until your throat aches and you dance until you can't feel your legs and you collapse into bed at the end of every day and you don't know if it's helping, but it's not hurting anyone but you. He's trying not to ignore you, but he's still kind of ignoring you, so you ignore him too, you don't check up on him and you focus on your own schedule, your own career. 

When your concert is confirmed and announced to the public, you think he'll start to go back to normal, but he stomps around the practice room and he doesn't talk to you and he works himself into exhaustion. "Something bothering you?" you ask him the next time you accidentally end up alone together. "I'm just not looking forward to being away from home again." He's never felt that way before, he'd always seemed more than happy to travel the world and entertain your growing number of fans. "What about your girlfriend? She can't be happy you're leaving," he adds. "What girlfriend?" you say. "Oh, is it too soon for labels like that?" 

"I don't have a girlfriend." He sighs. "Oh, okay then... what about your boyfriend?" he hesitates. "I don't have a boyfriend either. Who told you I did?"

"You said you met someone." Oh. Right. You did. "You're the one who decided the only reason I could be staying out late was if I was in a relationship. Like I'm not good for anything else." He sighs. "Why did you lie?" You shrug. "I didn't. You assumed." It's not the whole truth, but you just want out of the spotlight. "Why not?"

"What?" you say because he's not making any sense. "Why aren't you dating someone?" You roll your eyes. "Why aren't you?" He scoffs. "You've always been good at coming up with stupid questions." You cross your arms gruffly. "You're getting pretty good at it too," and you know you shouldn't say it, but he still doesn't get it, so you say it anyway. "We should get back to work," he mutters as he turns away from you, and you let him, because you can see yourself heading for disaster. 

Days later, you board the plane, carry-on in hand, stow it away in the overhead compartment, take your seat. It feels so familiar, but so much has happened since you last traveled in an airplane and the experience is making you reflective. You're not sure which member of your band you'll be sitting next to on your flight, but you should have known it would end up being him. The tickets were passed out randomly not long before it was time to board, and your luck has been terrible lately. (It's always been bad but as of a few months ago, you actually starting feeling kind of lucky.)

He climbs over you to take his seat and he doesn't take his headphones off or try to make conversation, he rolls his head away from you and stares out the window, waits for takeoff. It's awkward and that's your fault, and you feel guilty and that's your fault, and you're getting very tired of living like this, and that's your fault. You order him a sofa when the flight attendant asks and you angle yourself away from him and you busy yourself with songs you haven't listened to yet, but you don't talk to him and you don't touch him and you don't slide his headphones away from his ears because everything is different now and you feel like you might reach your breaking point, that you might tip the scales if you even acknowledge his presence in the seat next to you. (If you pretend that your luck hasn't run out.)

You kissed him on a plane once, and you still can't believe you did. You're not sure why, because you wanted to, because you were feeling rebellious, because he was there, because you thought it could be the last time. Whatever the reason, it's all you can think about now. You think he might be asleep, but the sun is in his eyes, so you lean over him, slide his window cover closed. It makes a loud noise as it clicks into place and he opens his eyes, rolls his head to look at you. "Sorry, it was bright," you stammer weakly. He shrugs, noticing the drink you ordered for him. "Thanks," he says as he takes a sip. "How long until we land?" he asks, rubbing his eyes quickly. "45 minutes or so." 

"Wake me up when we're on the ground," he requests before fixing his headphones and turning away from you to fall back asleep. You need some kind of remedy for this awkwardness, because you won't be able to convince everyone that the two of you are fine if you can't. (How can you convince anyone if you can't convince yourself?)

The Captain announces the plane will be landing in a few minutes and you reach over on instinct, take his hand. He looks at you abruptly, his eyes wide but sleepy, pushes his headphones away from his ears to rest around his neck. "I hate landings now, remember?" you tell him, like it's a logical explanation for your actions. "Oh," he breathes, "okay." He looks down at your hand that rests in his lap, closes his fingers in the spaces between yours, relaxes into his seat. 

He holds your hand through the entire landing, doesn't let go until the plane rolls to a stop, and you feel guilty again, you feel like you're using him without regard for his feelings, like you're forgetting how hard this all must have been for him, but not guilty enough to stop. He climbs over you to get to his bag, readjusts his hat. You follow him off the plane, into the airport, past the fans that have come to welcome you. He's quiet, but he looks back at you, to make sure you're still with him, and it makes your heart ache, so you tell yourself that if you can just make it to the hotel, everything will be okay. 

(You realize later that you're probably never going to feel 'okay' again.)


	18. pt. 18

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
By the time you make it to your hotel room, you're so happy to be off of the plane and unpacking that you end up chasing your roommate off with your unpredictable mood. "I'm gonna go hang out in the other rooms," he says before he leaves you to organize your luggage. It's about five minutes before there's a knock at the door and you sigh, because every time you go overseas, someone forgets their keycard and you're always the one who has to solve it. You answer the door, expecting to see Dokyun waiting patiently, but your assumption proves to be incorrect as your eyes land on someone considerably shorter than your roommate. 

He's standing in the hallway, a few feet from the door, and he stares up at you the second you open it. "Can I come in?" he asks expectantly. "Uh... now's not exactly a good time," you reply. "Really? Are you hiding someone in there?" His smile fades as you look down at your feet. "Oh," he says, "I didn't realize. I'll go." He turns to leave, but you reach out to stop him before you realize it, grab onto his hand and pull him back toward you. "There's no one in there now, but there will be, and I don't know when he'll be back," you explain, even though keeping him here is an awful idea and you should have let him believe you weren't alone. "He's in my room with Jaeho. He saw me leave so I don't think he'll risk coming back for a while."

"Why is that a risk?" He sighs. "It's not, but he thinks it is." You let go of his hand belatedly and stuff your hands in your pockets. "So, can I come in?" You should say no, but there isn't another logical reason you can give him, so you let him in. He sits on the floor, leans back against the foot of your bed, closes his eyes. "Are you okay?" you ask as you sit down next to him. "I don't want to pretend," he admits. "I know, but what other option is there?"

"I don't know," he whispers, and it's breaking your heart because you know this is the right thing, you know it'll be better for him in the long run, but it's hard to remember that when he seems so sad and small. "If you really can't, then just ignore me and we'll figure out how to explain it later." He opens his eyes and looks over at you. "I don't think I can ignore you either." 

"What do you want then?" He's fidgety and he's wringing his hands and you think that this can only end one way, but you can't just kick him out, you can't lie to him anymore, you can't make this harder on him, so you wait for him to answer. "If you were happy being with me, then we could try again, we could... but it doesn't matter because you weren't happy, so maybe I just want to be able to make you happy." His honesty is killing you, it's breaking through the barriers you tried to build between the two of you, it's dangerous and risky and you should really tell him to leave, but you don't have the strength. "I told you that wasn't your fault," you tell him in an attempt to cover up your lies. "It's not about fault, if you were happy, it might be worth the risk."

"No, it wouldn't," you try weakly, but he's never going to believe you. "It wouldn't?" You shake your head. "This is over for a reason, and it has nothing to do with my happiness." He nods slowly, stares at the floor, bites his lip. "You still think you need to protect me, don't you," he mumbles softly. "Yeah," you whisper. "From what?" _From me,_ you think, but he'll probably never understand it, so you keep those reasons to yourself. "From giving up on what you want for something that can never last."

"What if I don't need it to last? What if I just..." he trails off. "It isn't fair for you to have to settle." His voice breaks a little as he replies, "None of this is fair." You know he's right, but nothing that he says, no words in any language you've ever heard could make it fair, so you're not sure that it's even worth the effort. "Then we should run away," you suggest, and he sniffles quietly. "Where would we go?" You shrug. "Somewhere far away, somewhere with pretty mountains and interesting buildings, someplace where no one's even heard of us." 

He sighs and you know it's ridiculous to even think about leaving, to think of taking him with you, because the reason you're in this mess is because you both want the attention, you can't lay low, you can't pretend to be normal and get normal jobs and live like normal people, not yet. "I'll get a job as a personal trainer and you can find one at recording studio and we'll compromise between my lake house and your tiny apartment and I'll cook and you can shop and we'll forget about this, we'll start over." He reaches out and brushes his hand against yours. "I know you don't mean it, but thanks for saying it anyway." He might be wrong, because it feels like there's a chance that you do mean it, even though it's wrong and it could never work, and you don't want him that way anyway so it can't matter, right? It's just a sarcastic, optimistic, ridiculous plan, right? (There isn't any part of you that wants to run away with him, right?)

He stands up from the floor. "You gonna be okay tomorrow?" you ask even though you know his answer already. "I'll be fine," he assures you, but you can't really believe him. "I won't cry if you don't," he adds confidently. "You're sure about that?" He nods affirmatively. "Then I guess I won't cry." He's leaving and you should let him, but you can't keep your thoughts to yourself one moment longer. "Everything's ending," you mumble, and he looks away in an attempt to hide the hurt in his eyes. "We knew it would end. All of it." 

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" He shakes his head. "It's not forever," he whispers, "it's just a couple of years." You clear your throat, disrupting the emotion gathering there. "When did you turn into an optimist?" you say, standing up from the floor. "Maybe something could change by then. It's possible, right? Things change sometimes, don't they?" He's looking up at you, holding eye contact, desperation behind his eyes. "Sometimes, sometimes they do." He swallows hard, looks away from you in embarrassment. "But sometimes they don't," you add, "sometimes things don't change just because you ignore them."

"But how are you supposed to know the difference?" He's looking at you again, tears threatening to spill over his swollen eyelids, and you think you might actually be dying this time. "I know you think I do, but I don't have all the answers." He thinks you can protect him and he thinks you know the answers to his questions and he thinks that you hold all the power, but as it turns out, none of those things are true. He looks away for a moment, then back at you with renewed determination in his eyes. "Maybe things don't change until someone makes them."

He crosses the distance between you in two steps and then he's kissing you, and his skin is damp with tears and his hand is grasping your hair to angle your face closer to his and he's balancing on his toes so he can reach you and you can't help it, you kiss him back, you wrap your hands around his waist. His feet leave the ground as you lift him into your arms and he tangles his legs around yours as you turn around to set him down on the desk behind you. He seems lighter, weaker than you remember and you wonder how long it's been since he ate an actual meal. To think he had tried to convince you he could take care of himself. (But you know the reason he can't is you.)

Despite the position you've gotten yourselves into, you don't want to do anything to escalate this situation further because this can't keep happening and your roommate will be back at some point and, as it turns out, he remembered to take his key to the lock, so you rest your hands against his face and you ignore his fists balled up in your shirt and you ignore the muffled whines that leave his throat and echo in your mind and you ignore the way he keeps trying to pull you closer to him, the way the edge of the desk is digging through your jeans and into your skin. This has to stop, you have to stop him, you have to stop— 

"I love you," he mumbles against your lips, and it shouldn't take something like that to drag you back to reality, but you're grateful regardless. You pull away from him, feel his legs tighten around your thighs as he locks his ankles together and looks up at you. "This isn't something you can change," you explain softly, more breathless than you'd like to admit. "Give me one more chance, I can figure out how to make you happy, I can learn," he begs, and you wonder how long he's been feeling like this, you wonder how he can possibly believe that you weren't happy with him, you wonder why you're only good at lying to him. "Please," he adds, "I know we don't have a lot of time left, but I'm a quick learner, I know I can do it if you'll let me try again, I'll do whatever you want me to, just let me try. Just one more time."

You are an awful person. You're the devil, no, you are worse than the devil himself for letting this poor, wonderful, beautiful boy believe that he doesn't possess the ability to make you happy, that he isn't enough for you, that he has to drive himself crazy trying to prove his worth to you. You are the one who is worthless, you're the one who is unworthy of him, you're the one who doesn't deserve his perfection. You are worthless, you are hopeless, and you can't lie to him anymore. 

"I was happy," you whisper, close your eyes to ignore the shock in his, lean in to kiss him again. Either he takes a moment to process your words or he's trying to weigh the pros and cons of getting mad at you against breaking contact again, but either way he pulls backs from you slowly and looks at you, he looks hurt and confused and you wonder if you should have kept lying. "You lied? About that too?" Your lie about meeting someone else was a lie of omission, not that it matters to him right now, but this lie was real. This lie was deliberate and he deserves to hate you for it. (He deserves so much better than you.)

"You were happy?" he whispers and you know he did believe you, he trusted you and you betrayed him, and you're dying, you're suffocating in the relative silence because you're waiting for him to explode, you're waiting for him to realize how awful you've been to him, you're waiting for him to finally see that he's worth more than this. (You've been waiting for almost a year now.)

He swallows hard, his eyes still damp and reddened, he looks down at his hands which are still tangled in the fabric of your shirt. "You were happy," he repeats, like he doesn't believe the words, like he doesn't understand what they mean. "You are more than capable of making me happy." He looks back up at you, releases your shirt from his grasp, takes a deep breath. You hold yours. "Why did you wait this long to tell me? We're running out of time."

"I wanted you to hate me, so you could move on." He scoffs, tears still evident in his voice. "That's not how it works," he tells you. "I had to try," you mutter weakly. He slides himself off the desk, you back up to give him room to think. "I should... I should go..." He turns away, but you reach out to stop him, place your hand on his waist. "I'm sorry I keep screwing this up," you tell him softly. "This," he mutters, "I don't even know what this is." He has a point, you've never talked about it, what this all means. Not in any real way, not in a concrete, factual way that would make sense to him, and you have your reasons for that, but it's not fair to him, he shouldn't have to live in limbo, and maybe you'd tell him exactly what this is, if you knew yourself. "What do you want it to be?"

"What I want doesn't mean anything," he replies. "That's not true," you complain. "It is true," he insists. "It means something to me!" you say, your voice increasing in volume. "No, it doesn't," he mumbles, looking down at the ground. "Just tell me and we'll find out," you suggest. "Don't make me say it," he begs, but you want to hear it, you want to hear what you already know in his words. "Just tell me what you want from me." He looks back up at you and he's biting his bottom lip so hard, you think he'll break the skin. "I just want to be with you," he whispers finally. "And that doesn't mean anything?" He shakes his head. "Not if you don't want to be with me." Oh. Right. He still thinks you're strong, he still thinks you can protect him, he still thinks you don't mean it when you say you love him. "Everything is ending even if it's not what we want," you remind him, "but that doesn't mean we can't want it to stop." 

"It still doesn't change anything." You nod slowly, move closer to him despite the alarm bells ringing in your head. "But it means something," you whisper, your eyes dropping to meet his, "it means something to me." He looks away from you, leans back against the desk behind him. "But you're still leaving," he reminds you softly. "Not yet." He sighs, because you're pretending not to understand, you're pretending that there's another possible outcome, but he's too smart for that. (He's too smart for you, and yet.) 

"If you can't pretend that everything is okay, then at least pretend that this isn't the end." He shakes his head. "Tell me it's not the end and I'll believe you." The truth is that this has ended as many times as it's started, the truth is that this is never going to be over as long as you're alive, the truth is that you don't want to leave him either, you want to protect him for the rest of your life, you want to be there for him, you want to be with him, but the truth never does you any good anyway. "I don't know what this is," you say, move in close to him, reach out to touch his face, "but this is not the end." You lean down to kiss him one last time and he lays his hands against your neck. "You should go back to your room, tell him the coast is clear," you instruct after a moment. "Say it again," he whispers, and you think you should wonder what he means, but you don't. "This is not the end."

(He readjusts his clothes and his hair before he walks out the door, he turns back to look at you once more, a sad smile tugging at his lips, and you don't know why but you feel much worse than you would if this really was the end.)


	19. pt. 19

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
The next morning, you wake up and it only takes a moment for the memory of the night before to hit you like a semi truck. You hadn't expected him to show up at all, you didn't expect him to be so forward, you certainly didn't expect to tell him of your lies, but it happened, it was all real, and there is no going back now. (If it were possible, would you go back and erase it all? Not for your sake, but for his?)

You don't see him until it's time for leave for the concert venue, when he gets into the van and rests his head on the window. You take the front seat so you can't look at him the whole ride, so you can try to forget. (It doesn't work, but at least you're trying.) Waiting around backstage is tense and emotional, for all of you, because of you, and you think you're finally getting used to feeling guilty. By the end of the event, you think you could fill a lake with all the tears shed over you, because of you. He looks miserable, and you want to help, you want to change it, you want to make him feel better, but you can't, you'll never be able to fix this for him, to protect him from days like these. 

When you finally get back to your hotel room, you're exhausted and you notice that your roommate's things are gone and you know you probably should have seen this coming. You rinse off in the shower and you're towel drying your hair when you hear a knock at your door for the second night in a row, but this time you know exactly who it is. You get up to answer it, run your hand through your hair, open the door to find him standing there, bags in hand, just as you knew he would be. You should close the door, lock it behind you, you should have done it so, so long ago, but it might actually be too late this time because he propels himself into your arms, drops his belongings on the floor, buries his face in your shirt, and it's all over. Every wall you tried to build, every barrier you put up, every boundary line you drew evaporates into thin air, gone for now, gone forever. (You should have made them stronger.)

You wind up in your bed under the comforter, his legs tangled with yours and his hands playing with yours and his head against your shoulder, the tv filling the room with background noise, but neither of you pay attention to the news. "I told you this wasn't the end," you say softly. "I believed you," he confirms. "But I'm still leaving." He nods, distracting himself by tracing the lines of your hands. "And I still have to stay." He clears his throat. "But until you go..." he trails off as you look at him, lean over to kiss him slowly, slide your fingers underneath his shirt, rest your hand on his back. "Can we... not talk about that now?" you request as you pull away. "I guess," he says, but you know you'll end up talking anyway. 

"You said you weren't gonna cry tonight," he reminds you abruptly. "Hey, I wasn't the only one," you whine, "and if you had told me about those messages you all made, I wouldn't have said it." It had been quite a surprise, listening to your band talk about how much they were going to miss you, but he had said that he was lonely without you and that he loved you and you don't think there's a soul on this earth that could withstand messages like that without shedding a few tears. "And anyway, weren't you the one who said, _'It's only two years, it's not forever'?_ What happened to that?" He curls into your chest, presses his face into you. "I ran out of optimism," he mumbles, "and I've decided that this sucks." 

"You could probably use a break from me hanging around all the time anyway," you rationalize. "Don't even joke about that. When you're not around... I'm not even ready to think about it." You wrap your arms around him tighter, run your fingers through his hair. "It's not like we won't ever see each other, just not as much. We haven't seen each other much for a few months and you survived." He laughs, but it sounds suspiciously like a sob and your heart contracts painfully. "Sorry. I know you didn't want me to avoid you, I just didn't know what else to do." You feel ridiculous, apologizing now like you're pretending to be worthy of his forgiveness. "What if this is it for us? For the band, I mean."

"Even if it is, it doesn't have to be it for us. We'll still be friends, all of us. We don't have to share a dorm for that." You think you sound confident, but you don't feel confident. No one can predict where your lives are going to go after this and the odds aren't very good, you know lots of people who have gone their separate ways after disbanding. "You'll be so busy, you won't even notice that I'm not around." He shakes his head. "That's not going to happen. I'll notice." He looks up at you slowly, and you can see his next question in his eyes, _'Will you notice that I'm not around?'_ Stupid question, you think as you kiss him again before he can ask it. 

It's late and you should let him sleep, but you're having an exceptionally difficult time remembering that now, because you'd rather stay like this for a while, kissing and talking and kissing some more. You know he hasn't been sleeping much lately, and you've been doing it even less, and you should take advantage of the opportunity to do it together, but the sun will rise and things will change and you will be one day closer to the day you have to leave him behind, so you stay awake instead, talk about dumb movies and new songs and what you want to eat before you fly out in the morning. 

By 4am, you're starting to doze off and he's mumbling sleepily about wanting to go to the beach before it gets colder and you miss him, you've missed him so much, you're going to miss him so much. He adjusts his position slightly to look at you, his eyelids droopy. "Are you falling asleep because you're tired or because I'm boring?" You reach over and brush his hair from his forehead, and you wish this didn't feel so big and serious and wrong, but it does, and you wish you weren't always saying things you should keep to yourself, but you can't help it. "I love you," you respond instead, and you're not sure how he'll react until he laughs and shakes his bangs back into his eyes. 

"You don't believe me?" you ask, and it hurts, the idea that he doesn't believe you, that you've managed to convince him that it wasn't true, because there is a part of you that desperately wants to believe in this, believe that the two of you are stronger than that, stronger than any lies you could ever tell. (You should probably tell that part of you to shut up.) "I'll prove it," you add, "I'll tell anyone you want." You throw back the comforter, get out of bed, walk over to the window. "I'll yell it to the whole city." He shakes his head. "Stop, you're being ridiculous," he tells you, but you're not ready to stop, because this matters and you have to believe that your feelings are stronger than your lies, because he might be able to forgive you if they are. 

"Not enough proof? How about this?" You walk back over to your bed, pick up your phone from the nightstand, enter your passcode. "Anyone you want, pick a name and I'll tell them. I'll tell them everything." He sits up on his knees, laughs nervously. "Stop," he whines. "You don't want to choose? Fine, then I will." You open your contacts, but he leans over to take your phone away and sets it back on the table. "Stop it. I believe you." He reaches for your hands and pulls you back toward the bed. "I don't need proof. It was just... unexpected. Or, not unexpected just... not an answer to my question." He bites his lip, stares at yours. "You said it earlier in that video and I couldn't say it back then but... I know I lied to you, but I would never lie about that." Tears spring up in his sleepy eyes and you ruffle his hair and kiss his forehead. "We should go to sleep," you say as you climb back under the covers and turn off the lamp. 

The light from the tv washes out his face and he blinks away tears for the fifth time tonight, at least, and he holds your hand and snuggles against your chest, clears his throat. "So what now?" he asks, and you know you should have a plan for this, for the next month, for the next two years, but you don't and your plans never work out anyway, so you're not sure how to respond. "Can't we just... see how it goes?" It's a lame response and a terrible plan, but you don't think any amount of planning could ever make this less of a risk so there's no point. "Don't avoid me."

"I won't," you promise. "Things could still change," he reminds you, "two years is a long time." You nod, exhaustion weighing down your eyelids. "If I was gonna change my mind, I would have done it already." He wasn't expecting it, you can tell by his silence, and it might not be what he meant, but you felt the need to say it anyway. "What about you? Are you going to change?" you ask tentatively. "If it were possible, I would have done it years ago."

As you predicted, the sun rises and alarms ring and enlistment dates loom, but he kisses you awake and he looks exhausted as he collapses against your chest and he traces his fingers down your arm, so it might not be the worst morning after all. "What time is it?" you ask, your voice gravelly. "Not early enough," he answers. "You want to shower together and save time?" You shake your head and he looks confused. "Not yet," you whisper, kiss him before he can say anything else. You can tell the exact moment when he realizes what you mean, because he works your shirt up and over your head, breaking contact for no longer than absolutely necessary before kissing you again. You might have forgotten just how good he is at this because he's half asleep and he still seems to know exactly what he's doing. (You're sure of it now, you love kissing him more than you've ever loved kissing anyone.)

You hesitate for only a moment, because you're not sure if this is going to make him feel worse later, you're not sure if it's your responsibility to stop this before you go too far, you don't know it this is really what he wants or if he's just swept up in all of this emotion and finality, but you don't even get the chance to ask before he removes his own shirt and looks at you with intent in his eyes. "Stop thinking and come here," he demands, and you are more than happy to oblige. (Twice.)

You glance at the clock much later, and it's much later than you hoped, but you just can't drag yourself out of bed, not when he's still looking at you and holding your hand. "I wanted to get up early and work out downstairs, but this was a much better idea." He chuckles, betraying the emotion in his voice, and you feel the air being sucked out of your chest because you've done it again, you've hurt him again, you've proven your unworthiness again. (You're better at that when you're not trying.) "I'm sorry," you whisper, pulling him closer. "I just missed you," he mumbles softly. "I missed you too and I'm still sorry." He shakes his head. "Don't apologize, just... stay here for a minute." You nod, thread your fingers through his hair. "I won't avoid you at home. If you want something, just ask." _If you still want me, I'm yours._ "That will only make it worse when you have to go. I have to prepare myself now, I have to learn how to be without you."

"You're a fast learner, right? So maybe you don't have to start right away?" _Stupid,_ you think, _stupid, stupid, stupid._ "Not right away. But soon." You nod, squeeze his hand tightly. "Have I said I'm sorry lately?" He sighs. "That's all you say anymore," he mumbles. "That's because I mean it." He closes his eyes, clears his throat. "We have to go soon," he whispers. "I know."

"You still need to pack." You sigh. "I know." He squeezes your hand. "Shower first?" he proposes. "Shower first." 

You've forgotten how much you like getting ready with him in the morning, how it makes you feel normal, special, important to him. He looks so exhausted and hollow, he's not saying anything, and every now and then he reaches up to brush away a stray tear. "How did we get here?" you mumble to yourself, but he looks at you through the bathroom mirror. "You kissed me even though you knew you shouldn't and now you regret it." For a moment you wonder what he means, but then you remember something that happened months ago, before you ended things mostly for good. 

He'd found you sitting on the floor in your room, a bottle and a shot glass in front of you. "Hey, come join the party," you said sarcastically. He sat down across from you. "Let's play a game." He shook his head, but you weren't willing to take no for an answer. "Come on, it's simple. Tell the truth, take a dare or drink a shot." He nodded slowly. "I know how to play, I just don't think it's necessary." You shrugged. "It's not, but it might be fun." He crossed his legs to sit more comfortably while you poured him a shot. "I don't keep secrets from you," he insisted. "Truth or dare?" you asked. "Truth."

"Did you write that song about me? The one you showed me yesterday?" He looked down at the ground. "Was it that obvious?" You couldn't miss the opportunity, you answered him quickly. "Yes. My turn." He squawked in protest, but you ignored him. "Fine, truth," he relented. "Do you regret getting involved with me?" He shook his head. "Why do you think I would? Do you regret it?" You elected to take a shot instead, looked away from him. "Do you want to... end this?" 

"It's my turn," you complained. "Fine, dare." You pointed to his glass. "Drink that." He sighed and gulped down a shot. "Truth or dare," he asked. "Dare," you said. "I dare you to tell me if you regret it," he stated. "You suc.k at this game." He sighed. "You suc.k at telling me the truth." You took another shot. "Truth or dare," you said. "I'm don't feel like playing anymore." He started to stand, but you reached out and pressed your hand against his leg to ground him to the floor. "Pick dare," you coached. "Dare," he sighed. "I dare you to forgive me."

"What has gotten into you?" he asked. It could have been because you were six shots ahead of him at that point, or it could have been because you had been trying to push him away again and it seemed like it might be working, or it could have been because of all the doubts swirling around your head, or because you hadn't slept well in weeks, but whatever the reason, you were tired and you didn't want him to know just how vulnerable he was making you feel then, how vulnerable he makes you feel all the time. "I'm bored," you tried, but he didn't buy it, not that night. "I'm sorry I wrote that song. I know there's a line here and I crossed it." You shook your head, reached for another shot, but he stopped you. "I forgive you. Truth or dare," he asked. "Dare," you said, wrapped your hand around the shot glass in front of you. "I dare you to kiss me back," he whispered, leaned in to capture your lips with his own. It wasn't much of a dare, maybe, but it was beneficial to the both of you, so you let it go. 

Now you realize that he still thinks you regret it, that you regret him, and that is a thought that you can't stomach. You reach over to squeeze his shoulder, rub your thumb across the back of his neck, and he looks down at the counter, blinks rapidly. "I don't regret that. I don't regret anything... except lying to you... and wasting your time... and—" he twists sideways and leans up to kiss you silent. This is turning out to be a lot more difficult than you had thought, you're not leaving him but it seems like you are, and it's beyond your control, but you don't know how to help him, how to protect him from far away, how to make any of this easier for him, at least, so you use up your remaining time, try to make him know that you're not lying anymore, that you could never regret letting him in. 

Your phone rings and pulls the two of you back to reality, unfortunately. You answer and it's your manager, making sure that you're awake and getting ready to leave. You assure him that you are and he seems to believe you, reminds you to be downstairs in thirty minutes. "It was nice of him to call instead of coming up here," he mutters, fixing his hair and gathering his things to put them back in his bag. "Finish getting ready, I'll pack for you." He kisses your cheek quickly, but you trap him against you, your arm around his waist, kiss him purposefully, tenderly, try to remember exactly how this makes you feel, exactly how he feels pressed up against you, exactly how long you're going to have to exist without him. He smiles at you softly when you break apart after a long moment. "Fix your hair, I think I ruined it," he says with a chuckle before he leaves the bathroom, before he leaves you to drown helplessly in your own mind. 

(He sits next to you on the plane, but he doesn't look at you during the landing and he doesn't turn around to check if you're there in the airport and he locks himself inside his studio and you're not sure if you'll ever see him again and you think it might actually be over this time and you thought you were done crying, but it turns out that you haven't even started yet.)


	20. interlude: yj, iii; goodbye

(Yijeong POV)  
...  
You're getting used to working yourself to death. You've always needed a productive distraction from your problems, and you don't want to call him a problem, but you're still in desperate need of a distraction. You haven't seen him much for the past few weeks and you think it's probably better that way. There was one night, one moment that he wasn't away and he didn't avoid you, he came into your studio and he laid down on the couch and fell asleep while you were working, and there is no distraction big enough to take your attention away from him when the two of you are occupying the same room. 

So it's nothing new, sitting here and working and trying to block out his existence. There's nothing happening that indicates that this isn't just another ordinary night of your life, except for the fact that there is a cloud of uncertainty and finality choking the room in which you try to work yourself into exhaustion, pass out in your chair. You knew he must be out with his friends and you weren't expecting to see him at all before he leaves until he's kneeling in front of you, brushing your hair from your eyes and whispering your name. "Is everything okay?" you ask, your voice muffled with sleep. "Want to take a walk?" _It's freezing,_ you think, but you've rarely been one to miss opportunities to be with him, and this is the last opportunity you're going to have for a while, so you take it. You stand up from your chair and he hands you your jacket, smiles sadly down at you. You follow him into the darkness of night, walk at a leisurely pace for a few minutes and you're already bogged down with thoughts of what this means, what you should do, what he wants, but you think he can tell because he reaches over to interlock his gloved fingers with yours and slides your hands into his coat pocket. (Sometimes he's really good at reading your mind.)

You can see your breath, tiny puffs spiraling out from your lungs, and your skin is cold but your heart is on fire and you're not wasting one more second, you reach over to clasp your other hand around his arm, lean into his side, rest your head against him. "How long do we have?" He chuckles. "Until we freeze to death?" You shake your head weakly, rub your cheek against the fabric of his coat. "Until you leave." 

"Ah," he hums, "I think we're down to hours now." You're not quite sure why you bothered to ask, why you're pretending not to know, because you know exactly how many hours until everything changes forever and you gave up on trying to forget months ago. "Be safe," you say, "and don't get sick. You're no use to anyone when you're sick." He swallows hard, looks always from you. "You too," he whispers. "Promise. Promise me you won't do anything stupid." He turns back to face you, a smirk plastered against his lips. "You know me better than to think I can promise something like that." 

"Because you've been doing something stupid for almost a year now?" He wrinkles his nose. "What?" he asks and you think he just wants you to say it so he doesn't have to, but you do it anyway, squeeze his hand pointedly. "This thing with me. Stupid," you trail off, kick at the pavement. He stops walking suddenly, and you stumble back a few steps. "Hey. That's not true." His expression is hard but fragile, and you almost let it go, but if you don't have this conversation now, you'll never have it, and you've put off reality for long enough. "I ruin everything, I ruined your last year before..." He lets go of your hand and pushes it from his pocket, turns to face you. "Stop," he commands harshly. "Those things I said in London? Stupid. Not letting you tell me how you felt about me? Stupid. Lying to you about being unhappy? So, so stupid."

You can't really argue that, and you can tell that your words have wounded him because his eyes are watery and you could probably blame the chilly weather, but you know him better than to believe that tonight. He clears his throat, reaches out to rest his hands on your waist, beneath your jacket. "But this? This past year? Being with you, lov—" he stops abruptly, looks at you for a moment, his eyes teary and desperate, and it's almost too much for you to take, you think this moment might be the most honest you've ever shared and it's terrifying, because it's real and it's really ending this time. "Loving you?" he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I've done stupid things, I've said stupid things, but you are the... least stupid thing that's happened to me in ages. Maybe ever."

"How romantic," you joke, but your throat is tight and your eyes are stinging and his hands leave your waist. "I'm not... good at this. You know I'm not." You shrug. "I'm not good at it either." He shakes his head. "You're not supposed to be. You're still young." You start to tell him he's young too, but if he really were, he wouldn't be prepared to leave you in a matter of hours. "So you finally admit that I'm bad at this, and at the last possible second too."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. I really should have... figured something out by now." You walk ahead of him, feel a little relief when he follows after you, try not to shiver too noticeably. "Why'd you bring me out here?" you ask over your shoulder. "I wanted to ask you to wait." You stop in your tracks, turn around to look at him. "Wait for what?" He steps closer to you. "Wait for me," he whispers. "Oh," you sigh. "I'll be waiting whether you want me to or not," you explain. "I want you to," he assures you. He reaches up to run his hand beneath his hood, over his scalp, nervously. "I like it," you say. "You do?" You nod. "It makes you look... dignified." 

"Maybe I'll keep it this way then," he teases. "It doesn't matter to me how you style your hair," you remind him. "Even if I go bald?" he asks. "Even if you go bald," you reply, and it should feel like a joke, but it feels more like a confession, like those kinds of words carry a weight behind them, a weight that he's not prepared to withstand. "What about my hair?" He laughs. "I think you'd look pretty cute bald." You roll your eyes as an attempt to cover up the fact that you're starting to blush like an idiot. "We should go back," you tell him, look down at the ground. "Yeah," he breathes, but he doesn't move and he doesn't drag his eyes away from yours and he doesn't say anything else. "So I guess this is... goodbye for now." He nods. "I guess."

"Be careful, okay? I mean it," you have to say. "Don't miss me too much," he replies. "Don't miss me too much either," you say as a joke, to turn the situation around on him, but he doesn't smile and his eyes don't soften. "I already miss you too much." You have to look away, you can't let him get to you this easily, not again. You exhale sharply, watch your breath leave your lips like a plume of smoke. There's no one around, you feel hidden and relatively safe, so you look back up at him, bite your lip. "Then don't do it anymore." You're not sure why this is what it takes to make him stop staring, but he rips his eyes away from yours. "You're the one who said we had to get used to this," he mutters. "We don't have to until tomorrow."

"Right now?" he questions you and you shrug. "It's now or never," you say and you're planning on elaborating but he looks back into your eyes, moves in closer to you, and you couldn't speak if you wanted to. "I love you," he whispers, leans down to kiss you tenderly. It's not the right time and it's probably the wrong place and you're definitely freezing your ass off, but you wouldn't give this up for anything, for even one more minute of this. He pulls back, his eyes sad and weak. "I love you too," you say, because you're not going to miss another chance. "Let's go home, you're about to turn into a snowman."

Fifteen minutes later, you're standing in front of the door to his room and trying not to let the final moments get to you. "Good night," you say, but he shakes his head before you can finish the sentence. "Stay," he counters. "For me or for you?" He blinks slowly. "For me." You nod. "Okay." You follow him through the door and climb into his bed next to him. "Your hands are freezing," he tells you as he reaches for your hands, slides them underneath his shirt, shivers at the temperature of your skin. "You're warm," you say without thinking. "You're frozen, I kept you out too long," he muses, his eyes locked on yours, and it should feel like teasing, but he looks too serious for that. 

"I'm so bad for you," he whispers, ashamed. "If you feel that bad, then warm me up." Your voice is steady but you're still doubting your every word, your every action as you take your hands from under his shirt and move them to his face, move closer and press your lips to his. He slings an arm around your waist and pulls you in to lay flush against him. "Warmer?" he says when you pull back. "Not enough," you mutter because you're not wasting one more moment of your precious time talking, you've finally learned from your mistakes. 

You know you shouldn't still be in his bed when you wake up and he's already showered and getting ready for a day of farewells. He looks up at you when he hears you clear your throat, his expression guarded carefully. "I know I asked, but it's not fair to make you wait for me. I drank last night and I shouldn't have..." You wave him off. "Don't say you regret it even if you do. Today's going to be hard enough." He walks closer to you, his skin still damp and glistening in the morning light. "I don't. I don't regret... any of this. That part was true. I just don't want to tell you to wait until I can promise that something will change if you do."

"Something will change," you say, your eyes fixed on your hands as you run your fingers against the waistband of his jeans, "and you don't have to ask me to wait. Even if you tell me not to, I'll do it anyway." He leans down to kiss the top of your head. "You should get ready, it's getting late," he mumbles into your hair. "Five more minutes," you plead, your hands resting on his hips. "I don't regret it," he repeats because he knows you don't believe him, "do you?" You shake your head, press your nose into his chest, breathe in deeply. "It's not forever," he begins, but he leaves it at that. "I'll call you if... if you want," he adds and you look up at him, try not to be affected by the look in his eyes, fail miserably. "I'd like that," you say, lean up to kiss him softly. 

(You say your goodbyes in a crowded room with guarded hearts and veiled sentiments and he looks at you with regret and sadness while you force him to promise to take care of himself and Jaeho puts his hand on your shoulder as you watch him walk away, but you shake him off because you don't deserve to feel better, and your friends don't deserve to be inconvenienced because of your mistakes.)


	21. pt. 21

(Yijeong POV)  
...  
It's only been days since you last saw his name pop up on your screen, but something about this time feels different. He'd called you three times since he left. Once to tell you that he was okay and doing well in training, to listen to your breathing and lecture you about eating and sleeping enough. A second time to tell you some stupid story about his new buddies and the kind of pranks they tried to play on each other. Last time he called you to tell you he wouldn't be calling for a while because he wanted you to focus on your studies instead of him. That was two weeks ago. (You feel as though you've only slept for two hours since then.) You slide your finger across your phone to answer his call, hold the speaker to your ear and wait for him to speak. "I want to see you," he says, his voice low and determined. "Are you going home this weekend?" 

"I'm probably going to stay here and work," you answer truthfully, unsure if you should attempt to lie. "What about everyone else?" You shrug, despite the fact that he can't see you. "I don't know." He hums into the phone, thinking of a plan. "Do you want to see me?" You nod carefully. "Always," you whisper. "I'll be there tonight," he decides and you can't do anything but agree. 

He arrives a couple of hours later, sneaks in to your studio, startles you when he lands his cold hands on your shoulders as a greeting. You slide your headphones from your ears, turn around to look at him, lose your breath as your eyes search his. "I didn't mean to scare you," he says, a grin lighting up his features. "I just didn't hear you come in," you explain, point to the headphones that now rest around your neck. "So, I see nothing's changed since I left." You shrug. "It hasn't been very long yet." 

"Can you take a break?" he asks like you have a choice. "Yeah. What do you want to do?" He reaches for your hands, leads you to his room, which is sitting mostly untouched and vaguely dusty due to his absence. (Kind of like you.) He notices the vacant look in your eyes, waves his hand in front of your face after he close the door. "You okay? Are you sleeping enough?" You nod. "I'm fine. I just haven't been in here since..." you trail off because you don't want to lie. He doesn't need to know that you snuck in here in the middle of the night a week after he left to sleep in his bed, in one of the shirts he left behind. He doesn't need to know that you cried. He doesn't need to know that you can't sleep. "Me neither," he says, even though it's obvious. He sits on the side of his bed, motions for you to come closer, reaches for your hands. "Where is everyone?"

"I don't know." He sighs. "They didn't tell you?" You shrug again. "Are you upset with me?" he asks, looking up at you. "No, I'm not. It's just... hard." He looks down at the floor. "Do you want me to leave?" You shake your head, squeeze his hands. "Okay," he mutters, pulls you closer to him. You basically end up in his lap, your knees hugging his thighs, looking down at him slightly. "Your hair's getting longer," you mutter, your fingers ghosting along his scalp. "It's kind of a mess," he says, his hands against your hips, but you shake your head. "No, you look good. Are you... good?" He smiles softly. "I'm good. Better now." 

"Me too. I'm better now," you say, wrap your arms around his neck, press your face into him. "I miss you," you mumble, move your lips against his skin, feel a chuckle rumble up from his throat. "It's a good thing you said it because I honestly couldn't tell," he says earnestly. "You want me to prove it?" you say, and your heart feels fluttery and you haven't felt this nervous around him for a while, mostly because you haven't been around him for a while, but you ignore it, block out the logic circling around your head, and you close the minimal distance between the two of you, kiss him tenderly, remember why it's so hard to be without him. "I missed you too," he says finally. You take a deep breath, because he's here and he still seems to want you and you don't want to waste any more time. You swallow nervously, hope your voice holds steady. "So prove it."

An hour passes before you drag yourself from his arms, out of his bed, shiver slightly from the sudden change in temperature. "Where are you going?" You look around for the rest of your clothes, because you can't look at him and leave. "Back to work. Break's over," you say, get dressed, hear him get out of bed. "You're really not upset?" he says softly. "Not with you." You're upset with the situation for being so painful, with yourself for not getting over him yet, with the universe for being so unfair, but you're not upset with him. You can't be upset with him because he didn't leave you because he wanted to and he came back to you anyway. He walks in front of you, forcing you to look him in the eye. He's staring at your lips and it's kind of making you crazy, but you don't have enough strength to look away. "I'm starving," he says finally, "do you want anything?" 

"No, thanks," you say uselessly, because you know he'll order you food anyway. "Come on," he whines, "I'm not hungry enough to meet the minimum delivery amount." You sigh and you feel petty for refusing to eat, because you shouldn't take this time for granted. "Just order anything. I'll eat the leftovers." You try to sidestep him, but he slides his hand along your waist, stops you from moving past him. "Will you please just tell me what's wrong?" You bite your lip, because you should tell him because he deserves to know, but you've been bottling up your emotions for weeks and weeks and you don't want him to be around when you inevitably explode. "I told you. This is hard, but I can take it." He nods, dropping his hand back to his side. "If I could change it..." You wave him off. "It's not possible, so it's not worth saying. Eat something, I'm going back to work." You make it all the way to the doorway, your hand on the knob, but you hear his voice from behind you and your hand stills. "Are you done waiting for me?" 

"What?" you say, but you don't turn around because you heard him the first time and you don't want to break down. "Do you need to stop waiting?" You nod slowly, blink furiously, hope he doesn't notice the tightness in your voice. "Yeah. But not in the way you're thinking." You turn the knob and leave him behind, beg him silently not to follow, and he doesn't. You step into the bathroom, peel off your clothes, step under the shower head and try to erase him, scrub his touch from your skin and his words from your head and his face from your heart. 

You look in the mirror after you're done and you don't like who you see, because he's still in your heart and you don't know if he'll ever leave it, and you've should have stopped this, because you knew exactly how it would end, and that makes it your fault for letting it happen. You return to work, throw yourself in, don't think about him, don't think about his skin on yours, don't think about how much your heart hurts when he looks at you, don't think about the fact that he'll be gone again soon, don't think about the fact that he's here right now. 

He comes into the room half an hour later, a few minutes after you hear the doorbell ring. He starts to lay out an excessive spread of food on the floor and you don't really want to and you definitely aren't hungry, but you know he'll drag you out of your chair sooner or later so you stand up from your chair, sit down across from him. "Have you been going hungry?" you ask, and you wish you weren't so concerned. "Nah, I just skipped lunch." You nod and look down at the floor. He starts to eat, and you hope he's hungry enough not to notice that you're not, but he's too concerned about you for that. "Here," he says, picking up a dumpling with his chopsticks and holding it out for you. You sigh, but you eat it obediently, because you've already ruined this evening once and you don't have the energy to do it again. "Not bad, right?"

"It's good, I'm just not hungry," you explain. "Maybe I shouldn't have come back," he mutters before shoveling more food into his mouth. "I told you I wanted to see you and I did. I'm sorry..." He interrupts you, his mouth full. "Don't apologize." He swallows and sets down his chopsticks. "This is not your fault. I know you think it is, but I'm the reason things between us are hard and awkward. So you have nothing to apologize for." You bite your lip because this shouldn't be hurting you this much and he reaches out to rest a hand on your thigh. "I'm the one who should be sorry and I am, and I can't blame you if you don't want to see me right now."

You don't know why that does it, why that's the last straw, but suddenly the floodgates burst and everything you've felt over the past month or two or four is pouring down your cheeks, chest heaving with gasping sobs. You drop your head, stare at the floor, try to stop crying, try to start breathing, but you can't. _Stupid, stupid,_ you think, but that only serves to make you cry harder. 

You can't see him, but if you could you'd see him move the takeout containers from the space between you and slide across the floor to take you in his arms. Your head nestles into his shoulder and he runs his hand across your scalp. "Shh," he whispers soothingly, drops his head to press gentle kisses against your shoulder, "you don't have to hide from me." You wish he was right, you wish didn't feel like curling under a rock and hiding from everything for the rest of your life, but this is all too much, this has been too much for you to handle for a year, ever since he looked at you like a stranger and denied his feelings for you, doubted your feelings for him. You've held it in, you've buried all that pain deep within your heart, but it's been rising to the surface since he left and you can't bury it again, not yet, not when he's here and he's trying to help you the best he can. (He can't help you now, and you're not willing to help yourself.)

"I'm sorry," you gasp, repeat it until your eyes are burning and your head is pounding. Your hands grasp at his shirt, trying to pull him closer and closer to you, because you don't know how to let him go a second time. "I won't come back," he says, "I won't do this to you again." You will the tears back, shove your emotions back under control, pull back to look up at him, still gasping for the air your lungs are aching for. "Don't leave," you beg softly, your throat beginning to ache, "I can take it, just don't leave yet." He looks at you with pity in his eyes and it hurts, it hurts so much. He reaches behind himself to grab a napkin, uses it to dry your tears as you sniffle and try to breathe deeply. "I'm not sure if staying is the right thing to do," he responds. "Do it anyway. Okay?"

"Okay," he agrees, and it occurs to you that you're not sure he can say no to you anymore either. Your head aches a little from crying, but his arms are still wrapped around your waist and he rests his forehead against yours, so you can ignore it for now. "I'll clean this up and store the leftovers. You should put on a movie or something." He starts to protest, but you shake your head, start to gather food containers. "I need a minute, okay? I'll come in when I'm done." For once, he's the one that's beginning to resemble a kicked puppy, and he stands up slowly, putting the last dumpling in his mouth. You can't look at him now, you look down at the leftovers and trash you have to gather and he walks out. 

You tidy up and wash your hands in the kitchen sink, lean your forehead against the cabinet above it, try to figure out why this is so painful, why you can't just put it all aside for one night, just one night. You rinse your hands and dry them before you can't stall anymore, you wander to his room and close the door behind you. He's laying on his bed, flipping through his Netflix queue to find the perfect movie and you feel your emotions bubbling up again. You stomp them down as he notices you standing there and throws back the comforter, motions for you to get in bed, his eyes sadder than they've been all day. (So is it sadness or pity? You can't tell anymore.)

It turns out to be one of the easiest decisions you've ever made, climbing into his bed, snuggling into his chest, letting him kiss your hair and run his hand up and down your back, letting him pull you even closer to him as he uselessly whispers that he's sorry. "Is this movie okay?" he asks, gesturing up at the screen. You lift your head from his chest, swallow hard, notice that your eyes still feel puffy and bloodshot. "As long as it's a movie you have no interest in actually watching," you say, and your voice wavers but your eyes don't leave his and you lean in to kiss him deeply. "Are you doing this for me or for you?" he asks as you break contact to unzip his jeans. "For me," you say, climb on top of his lap, rest on your calves, one on each side of his hips. He presses play on the remote before he sits up underneath you and lets you pull his shirt off over his head. "Promise?" You nod. "I promise, so stop asking." He zips his lips with an imaginary key and leans in to kiss you like it's the easiest decision _he's_ ever made. 

You wake up in the middle of the night, glance over at the clock, half past 3am. He has an arm tucked around your waist, and you reach up to touch his face, fingers ghosting across his forehead as your eyes adjust in the darkness. You dance your fingers across his face lightly, down his nose, along his lips, over the curve of his jaw. He is so beautiful and peaceful, and your heart is contracting painfully in your chest, but you've never let that stop you before so you don't stop, you watch him as he sleeps and you pretend for a minute, you pretend that this isn't going to end again and again and again, imagine a world where you don't have to keep giving him up. 

He stirs beneath your touch, lets out a sigh and pulls you closer to his chest, his arm wrapping tightly around you. You think he'll wake up, but he doesn't, he just holds you against him, makes vague noises in his sleep, and your heart is crumbling, you feel exposed and exhausted and you hate those feelings. (You don't have any other feelings lately.)

You shouldn't risk it, you shouldn't take the chance because you don't know what will happen if he hears you, but his eyes are closed and his limbs are wrapped around you and your heart beats faster and more painfully and you whisper those three words, the ones you're not supposed to say, the ones you shouldn't want to hear, the ones you're only hurting yourself by saying. (Because there is some part of you that thinks that love could still change something.)

You sneak out of his bed a couple of hours later, slide out of his arms and tiptoe to your own room. You flop down onto your bed, wrap your arms around yourself, bury your face in your pillows and fail to fall asleep. In the end, you manage to pass out for a few hours and when you wake up, you know he's already gone and he didn't wake you up to say goodbye. You can't really blame him for that (for anything), but it still stings. Everything is so wrong and you shouldn't miss him yet but you already do. You pick up your phone to find a text message from him sitting on your screen and you have to fight the urge to burst into tears all over again, because you're all alone and you're still in love with him and you can't keep yourself from hoping that things will change if he decides to come back to you for good. 

(The message reads, _'I'm sorry for making you cry, I'll try harder,'_ and it might not seem like much, but all you've really wanted was for him to want to try.)


	22. pt. 22

(Yijeong POV)

...

He's sitting on the couch. You haven't seen him in ages, but he's sitting on your couch with his ankles crossed and feet resting on the coffee table and he looks worn out and a little ruffled and absolutely beautiful, you can't deny it. (You've never been good at denying the truth, but you've started trying again.)

You told him you were busy, you told him to go away, you tried to tell him that you couldn't give him anything tonight, but he looked into your eyes and told you he just didn't want to be alone and you'd be lying if you said you weren't a little lonely yourself lately, so you had no choice but to let him stay. That was an hour ago, and all he's been doing is sitting on your couch and occasionally chuckling at something on his phone and breathing, but you feel like you're coming out of your skin because he's so close but not close enough and you can't focus on anything but the images of him you keep catching in your peripheral vision and the way his laugh fills you up despite everything. (And there is so much everything now.)

Finally, you can't do it anymore, you can't focus and you can't stop and you can barely breathe, so you save your work and you sit down on the couch next to him and he sets down his phone in his lap. "Done?" You shake your head. "Taking a break." He sighs. "You're never done, are you?" You wish it was a question, but he knows you too well. You're never done with work just like you're never done with him. (Just like he's never done with you.) "How have you been?" you ask, like you would ask anyone who showed up in your life after a while. "I'm fine. You?" You nod. "The same." 

"Have you eaten?" You shrug. "A while ago." He picks up his phone. "I'll order something." You clear your throat because it's already feeling tight with emotion over his proximity. "So, you're staying?" He looks over at you and you swear you see tears in his eyes before he blinks them away. "I'm staying." You nod again. "Are you sure you're fine?" You regret it the moment you say it because he puts his hand on your knee and looks at you as intensely as ever and your heart stops. Spending time away from him is only breaking down your ability to resist him. (Even though that would imply you possessed that ability in the first place.) "I'm tired and I'm lonely and I miss you, but I'm fine." He sounds so earnest that your heart breaks a little more for him and you hate yourself for forgetting that you're not the only one who's suffering. You think you're selfish, you think you're immature and you feel guilty about it, but you're almost glad that he's hurting because it's making him need you and that's something you still want, something you'll always want. "You miss me?" is all you can think to say. "Of course. Do you miss me?"

"Still asking stupid questions, I see," you reply, because saying you miss him out loud feels a little like losing right now. You should let him be the one who misses you, you should let yourself be the one who's indifferent to him, you should take the opportunity to have the upper hand with him for once, just once. "People don't change, remember? You taught me that." You realize you're wringing your hands again and you cross your arms across your chest to resist the temptation. "I did?" He nods. "You've taught me a lot, actually." If you stare at the coffee table any harder, you're going to burn a hole in it. "Like what?"

"You taught me that hard work really does get you somewhere in life, even if it means you have to make a lot of sacrifices along the way." You shouldn't be flattered, but you are. Just a little. "I taught you that?" He looks down and realizes that his hand is still on your knee before he looks back up. "Yeah, you did." He takes his hand from your knee and leans back into the couch. "What are we going to do?" he mutters after a moment. "About what?" you say. "About us."

"Oh. I don't know." He sighs heavily, closes his eyes and presses a hand against his forehead. "Everything kind of fell apart," he says, "but you're still here. I don't... I don't know why." You're confused and you know it shows so you decide to address it. "I told you I'd be waiting, right? Even if you didn't want me to?" He nods slowly. "I'm still here because I'm still waiting to see if... you ever want me to be." It feels too honest, you feel like he'll snap, like it's too much pressure to put on him right now, but you're getting tired of lying. "I want you," he says and your heart stops. (Once upon a time, you didn't think that was possible.) "I'm here too, aren't I?" You look at him, feeling a little stunned because the two of you are never this honest with each other anymore, but he's looking at you too and you know you're falling right back into him, just like you always have. (Just like you always will.)

If someone asked you later on, you probably wouldn't be able to tell them who moved first. For once, you feel like the two of you are on the same page, like you're moving together, like this is working, like you both want it just as much and even that is enough to break your heart. Either way, if he moved first, if you did, you don't care for long because you're in his arms and your hands are in his hair and he's kissing you as gently as he probably ever has and you start to believe it, you start to believe that he needs you and not just sex, like he's been lonely for you and not just the closest warm body, like the only one who can help him is you. 

You believe it even more when you end up in your bed with all of your clothes on, with his arms around you tightly and a movie playing in background. He kisses your hair and touches you like you're something fragile, no, like you're something precious and he's the only person who has ever made you feel that way. (He might be the only person who will ever be able to.)

"I'm sorry for everything," he whispers. "I really do know I can't keep showing up like this." You don't know if he means it, because if he was really sorry, he would stop, but it feels genuine enough and you never thought he'd apologize so you decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. (You pretend that's ever been a choice for you.) "We've both made mistakes," you compromise. "It's my fault we're broken up. All of us." You roll yourself over in his arms, look up at him, take a deep breath. "I don't blame you for that. We all decided, it was the right thing to do. You didn't get to choose to leave, you had to. You shouldn't be sorry for that." 

"But I am. I was supposed to be... I failed you, all of you." You smile despite everything in you that wants to cry. "You didn't. You're didn't fail me, because you always come back." As long as he's yours some of the time, as long as he wants you occasionally, as long as he's still around, you're willing to take what you can get. (Because this, random drop-ins and misspoken words and stolen kisses and uncertainty, feels like the closest you'll ever get to love.) "I should've have tried harder." Tears are welling up in his eyes again and you reach out to swipe a tear away from his cheek before it can fall. "Don't stop trying. I can't speak for anyone else, but you tried hard enough for me. There's nothing else that could have been done. It's time to let it go. Right?"

"Are you gonna... let it all go?" he asks nervously, and you don't know why he won't believe you when you say you'll always be waiting. (He has to believe it eventually, it's the truth.) "Maybe it's time to let the past go." He blinks twice. "What about the future?" 

"I guess we'll have to wait and see." He bites his lip. "I guess." You've been talking more than ever and it's not making you feel any better, and you can't believe it's been long enough for you to forget how much the both of you hate talking, so you sit up abruptly and turn to look at him. He looks tired and concerned and beautiful and a little like he's done something wrong and it's a look you haven't seen in a long, long time. "Are you staying the night?" He blinks again, concern washing across his eyes. "Yes." You nod and pull your t-shirt off over your head. "Have we done enough talking yet?" you say confidently, even though your heart is beating against your rib cage and you feel like you might pass out from anticipation, even though you only feel this way when it's him, not that you've been willing to prove that theory much. "I'm yours," he replies and you think you might be tearing up now because you've wanted to hear those words for far too long, because he's here and it's real and you're not alone for once. "You're mine," you repeat, "and I'm yours."

The next morning, you know he has to go and you know you have things to do, but you get up early to make him coffee and kiss his face until he wakes up and it feels too real, so real that it seems fake. "So what now?" you ask finally, once he's had his coffee and is retrieving his pants from your floor. "I probably can't come back for a while. We're both so busy, but... maybe you can call me. And maybe next time... it won't be so out of the blue."

"I'll be here," you say, even though he should know that by now. "I'll come back," he responds, even though you should know that by now. He walks back over to kiss you goodbye and your heart aches in a way it hasn't in a while, because he's leaving again, but you know he'll be back, and you miss him already, but you know he misses you too, and he might be the worst thing that's ever happened to you, but right now he's the best thing that's ever happened to you and somehow that makes it worth it. 

(He starts texting you again and confiding in you and flirting with you and it might not be perfect, but it feels like the next chapter of a story you know will never end and maybe all you really needed was a new start.)


	23. pt. 23

(Yijeong POV)

...

You don't know why you keep falling back into him. Just when you think he's gone forever, he shows up again, at your door or on your phone and he always ends up in your bed. Okay, sometimes he ends up on the couch or in the shower, but that doesn't sound nearly as poetic. (Not that you're that kind of poet anyway.)

Sometimes he finds an excuse to drop by, something of yours that you accidentally left on his floor months and months ago. Sometimes it feels like he kept your things on purpose just in case he needed an excuse because you're not usually quite that scattered, even when you're with him. Sometimes he texts your pictures of his cat or one of his dumb buddies or a ridiculous video clip he found on the internet. Sometimes you try to ignore him, but he's always been hard to ignore, and the harder and weirder and more complicated things get, the more you don't want to ignore him. Sometimes you feel like you're stuck in an endless loop that you'll never be able to escape. (Sometimes you're not sure if you want to.)

It's unpredictable, he's unpredictable and that's not something you're fond of, but you can't deny that you spend most weekends wondering if he'll decide to knock on your door and make you feel like nothing's changed. You spend most days wondering if he'll text you a picture or a stupid joke. He makes it hard for you to focus when he's not even around and you think that's quite a talent. (An obnoxious talent, but all the same.)

Sometimes he doesn't show up. Sometimes he doesn't text and he doesn't call and you're not sure why. You know you didn't, but you wonder if you did something wrong. You know he's not, but you wonder if he's hurt or sick. You know it doesn't mean anything, but you wonder if it does. You're always waiting for him. You're always wondering about him. That's the way it's always been and that's probably the way it will always be. (But it's okay. You've always hated change too.)

Sometimes he drops by really late, but you don't mind because you're always still awake and working and you're always waiting for him to come. That's the 'sometimes' you find yourself in tonight. It's after midnight when he stumbles up to your door and knocks harshly. You open the door for him and notice a plastic bag in his hand and a blush across his cheeks, water spots speckling his hoodie and his hair soaked and clinging to his forehead. "Hi," he says as he steps inside and kicks off his shoes. "Were you still working?" You nod. "What happened to you? It's been raining all week, why didn't you bring an umbrella?" He shrugs and hands you the plastic bag, heavy with glass bottles. "It's just rain. Catch up," he says and plops himself down on the couch. 

You sigh and set the bag on the table. "I'm good, thanks." He scoffs. "It's the weekend. Can't you ever stop long enough to have some fun?" This is not the first time he's said something like this, not by a long shot. He's convinced that you're wasting your youth and not having any fun and you're going to die someday never having experienced the good things in life, according to him. (Maybe you'll tell him one day that you have.)

"I can have fun without drinking," you tell him defensively. "Good for you," he replies sarcastically. You smile, because the snarky kind of drunk is way better than the other kinds you've seen him be. You sit down on the couch and toss him a towel to dry off with. He tosses it back to you. "If it's bothering you that much, you should do it." He immediately lays his head down in your lap and your breath catches because this is not something that usually happens and you'll never get used to the unpredictable. You try to towel dry his hair, but his positioning isn't ideal and now your jeans are going to be soaked and he doesn't seem to care so you run the towel across his hair gently and hope your jeans will dry quickly. "Are you okay?" you ask softly. "I'm just having a rough week." You give up on the towel and use your hand to play with his damp hair instead because you haven't been having the best week either, if you're honest, and somehow he makes you feel better just by being around. (Sometimes. Sometimes you end up feeling worse.)

"You're so nice," he mumbles. "What?" you ask with a chuckle. "You're nice," he repeats, louder and less muffled. "You really are drunk," you tease and he sits up from your lap, your hand catches in his hair before falling back to your side. "Are you saying you don't believe me?" You forgot how cute he can be when he gets like this, when he tries to defend you to yourself. "I believe that you believe it," you say because you like it when he's flustered. "Because you're nice to me even when you shouldn't be." He has a point. He must not be that drunk after all. "Which means you must be really nice." 

"I guess." You don't know what's gotten into him, but you kind of want it to stop. Maybe snarky, defensive drunk isn't so great after all. "Why don't you believe me?" he says, and it sounds genuine enough. "I'm not nice all the time." He shrugs. "You're nice to me all the time." You sigh. "Yeah, but not because I'm nice. I'm only that nice to you." He crosses his arms. "Why?" That should not be a hard question to answer, but somehow it is. "Because you're not just anyone."

"Is that why you never make me leave? Even when you're sick of me?" Partially. But he's wrong that you get sick of him. Sometimes you feel sick because of him, but you never ever get sick of him. "You're way bigger than me. I can't kick you out, I don't pick fights I can't win." Most of the time. You knew you could never win him, but you picked him anyway. (That makes it sound like you had a choice. You didn't.)

"I'm lonely," he confesses softly. "You should hang out with your friends. I'm sure they miss you." He shakes his head like it should be obvious. "I'm not lonely for them." Oh. You're not lonely for your friends either. You just didn't think that was something the two of you had in common. "I miss you," he says plainly. "But I know you already know that."

"What part of me do you miss?" you have to ask because he's been drinking and he might give you a more honest answer than you're prepared for, but you ask anyway. "All of you." Well, it could have been worse. "Even the parts of me you don't like?" He nods. "But do you even have any of those?" You look away from him because for some reason it hurts to look him in the eye. "Lots, I'm sure." He shrugs. "I'll let you know if I think of one." He pauses. "Are you really going to let all that go to waste?" He gestures to the plastic bag on the table. "I don't need to be drunk for this." 

"You think I do?" You brush off your jeans which are still damp from his hair. "Sometimes you do. Sometimes... that's what it takes." He shakes his head insistently and you can see him searching for the words to defend himself, but you know it's true. You know sometimes he has to find a way to forget that you're not actually what he wants, that you're just the stand-in, just the understudy for the one who will eventually show up to play the lead role. Maybe you have a good enough reason to get drunk after all, but you know that won't make it any easier to keep your tears behind your eyes where they belong, so you leave the bag on the table, untouched. "How many times do I have to say that's not true before you believe me?" 100. Times infinity. "I've never been confused okay? I've never seen this as something it's not." It's a lie, but you spend a lot of time pretending it's a fact. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"But you wouldn't be if you had any other choice." You know he probably thinks you're saying this because you want him to convince that it's not true, but you're really saying it to remind yourself so that you're not caught off guard when the unpredictable becomes predictable again. "I have a choice, just like you do." Technically, but not really. "I'm choosing you." Technically, but not really. "You don't have to choose me back if you don't want to." Technically, if any of this had ever been a choice for you. Most of the time, you feel like there was never a time before him just the same as there will never be a time after him. He's always there, holding you here, and he has no control over that and neither do you. (You used to think you had everything under control. You were a idiot.) 

"If this isn't worth it for you, tell me. I'll leave." You don't believe him. Even if he left tonight, he'd be back tomorrow or next week or next year. The one thing you've always been able to depend on is the fact that he always comes back if you wait long enough. (That and the fact that you never actually get to the point where you want him to leave.) "I'm not telling you to leave. I guess I'm just... lonely and tired too." He sighs dramatically. "But I'm here so you don't have to be lonely right now." Wrong. You are always most lonely when he's here, when he's sitting next to you making you wonder if he wants you, if he misses you, if he'll leave or stay the night, if you'll spend another morning crying in the shower, if this will actually destroy you this time, if he'll finally give up on you, if... he cares, even a little. "Do you want to stay the night?"

You're asking because you don't like talking about this and you know he doesn't believe you, he doesn't understand what you see, why you know this was always going to end one way and one way only, you're asking because you're pretty good at distracting him and because if you're not going to get drunk this weekend, you might as well do something reckless and irresponsible and endorphin releasing. (You're asking because you missed him too.)

"Isn't it obvious?" You shrug. "You brought booze and nothing else. How does that make it obvious that you're staying? You don't even have an umbrella." He tilts his head. "Maybe I didn't bring one so you had to let me stay." You scoff. "That may be your stupidest scheme yet." He shrugs. "Only if it doesn't work." Arguing with him has always been so fruitless for you. "It's working, but only because my umbrella is broken." Or it will be if he asks you for proof. (You don't get out much anyway.)

It's 2:13 in the morning and he passed out next to you an hour ago, but you're wide awake and your thoughts are racing because you don't know what to do anymore. You feel like you're suffocating when he's here and you feel like you're suffocating when he's not and you've been so miserable for so long that it feels normal and you don't know if you should be concerned about that or not. You have a locked folder on your computer full of words written in his wake, you have one of his shirts in your dresser drawer and you have three bottles of soju in your fridge, but somehow that doesn't feel as wrong as it should. You've always known where this would end up. You've known it since the night he kissed you in the dark in that hotel room, fifty million years ago. (Sometimes you think you've known it since you met him, fifty billion years ago.)

You love him. You love him so much you're about to burst into tears if you look at him one second longer, so you roll over and stare at your alarm clock instead. Sometimes you really wish you could tell him it's over, make him leave, learn how to breathe again, but you're not sure if it would be worth it. (You're not sure if it would work.) You can't take it anymore, you get out of bed and you turn on your computer and you type until you're exhausted, you type until you feel like crying a little less, you type until you feel like you can breathe a little easier. It's 5am by the time you crawl back into bed and feel strong enough to look at him a little longer. You wish you could sleep as soundly as he does. (The soju probably helps with that too.)

You wrap your arm around him, bury your head in his shoulder, press your face into his skin so hard you can hardly take a breath. He'll probably leave as soon as he wakes up and you're tired of wasting time and you're tired of trying not to need him and you're tired of thinking, so you hold your breath and hope you'll pass out before he wakes up so that he'll stay a little longer. 

You wake up to the sound of his phone crashing to the floor and you open one of your eyes so you can see what he's doing. He's crouched by the edge of your bed and he looks up at you apologetically, his phone in his hand. "Sorry, I was trying not to wake you." You yawn and rub at your eyes painfully. "Did it break?" He looks down at his hand. "My phone? Nah, it's fine."  You nod and continue to look at him despite your blurred vision. "Are you leaving?" 

"I was going to... it's late and I have some loose ends to take care of... but I wasn't gonna leave without telling you, I was just gonna get dressed and wash my face first." You clear your throat because your voice is still not working well yet. "I'm not trying to keep you from leaving if you want." You've never been able to hold him anywhere, to keep him from leaving you. He only has that power over you and that's reason #489 why this is so unfair. "I don't want to. I have to." You sigh and close your eyes because you didn't sleep enough and having your eyes open is giving you a headache. "Go ahead. I'm not getting up." He gets up from the floor and a few seconds later you hear the bathroom door close. You try desperately to fall back asleep, but it's too hard because he's leaving again and even though you're most lonely when he's here, you're still pretty damn lonely when he's not. 

He comes back ten minutes when he's dressed and you think he'll probably just leave, but you feel the mattress sift with his weight and he rests his hand on your back and you feel those tears again, those ones that prick at your eyes all the time, the ones you still wish you were better at holding back. "Are you sleeping?" You shake your head once. "Are you okay?" You're not sure how to answer that one. "I'm tired," you reply because you feel like saying anything else would be a mistake. "That's probably my fault too." It's not like you slept much before you met him either, but it just keeps getting worse. "I'll be okay after some coffee." He nods and rubs his hand across your back. "It's the weekend. You should get some more sleep." 

"Are you coming back later?" His hand stills and you feel like you've made a mistake. "Do you want me too?" You shake your head slowly. "Just curious." He clears his throat without reason. "Maybe. If I get everything done. Someone has to drink all those bottles in your fridge and I don't think I can trust you with that kind of responsibility." He's joking, but he sounds nervous and you wish he would just leave already because your heart aches again. "Maybe I'll see you later then." He stands up from the bed. "Maybe you will."

(He leans over and kisses you before he goes and he tells you he'll text you later and he almost seems reluctant to go and your heart just keeps breaking more and more because there has never been anything you could do to make this stop and there never will be.)


	24. pt. 24

(Yijeong POV)

...

You've been out to eat with a friend and you actually managed to have a good time, but you start to feel like something's wrong as you walk back from the bus stop. Those types of predictions have a habit of coming true, especially for you, so you're not exactly surprised when you find him sitting outside your door and playing some noisy game on his phone. Somehow he still manages to hear you approaching and looks up from his phone. He smiles and your heart aches, but you manage to smile back at him for a moment. "You should give me your code or something. It's cold." You stare at him. "No, it's not." He shrugs and stands up. "My point still stands. Happy birthday," he adds, shaking a plastic bag in his hand. You sigh and unlock the door and let him follow you inside, because you've never been able to shut him out and you probably never will. "It's not my birthday yet. Not for an hour." He sets the bag on your coffee table and unpacks it: a cupcake, a candle, some cheap beer. "Unless you'd rather wait for midnight..." 

"No, I don't want to wait." He grins and you sit on the couch while he fixes up your birthday cupcake with a candle, and he lights it with a lighter from his pocket. Then he sits next to you and holds it up expectantly and your heart is breaking as you blow out the candle and wish for things to change for the better for once. 

You open your eyes and he looks at you, prompting. "I'm not gonna tell you my wish. It won't come true," you say, setting the cupcake down on the table. "You believe in birthday wishes?" You shrug. "I wouldn't bother making a wish if I didn't." That's a lie, a little one. Of course, you don't believe in birthday wishes, but you can't bear to miss a chance just in case it works this time. (If everybody gets one miracle, then you hope to God and the heavens and the galaxies and anyone else who's listening that he's yours.)

"So, what did you get me?" He points to the table. "Cupcake," he says simply. "And?" you say. "I'm kind of broke right now," he replies by way of explanation. "I didn't say you had to buy me something." You just want him to stay. That's as close as you ever expect to get to your wish coming true. You were lucky enough for your birthday to fall on a weekend and you just want him to stay. "I don't?"

"Nope." You know he knows what you want. He's just being stubborn and admittedly, so are you. "Ah. Got it." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a toothbrush. He holds it up proudly. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?" He shakes the toothbrush and rolls his eyes just a little. "Oral hygiene is very important." He puts the toothbrush back in his pocket. "To you?" He grins and you want nothing more than to kiss that smile from his face. "All matters of public safety are important to me." You poke him in the chest, hard. "You're shameless," you mutter and he scoffs. "What was that for? I was being serious."

"It's my birthday so I can do whatever I want," you state firmly. "You want to poke me like a 3rd grader?" You nod. "For starters." You look down at your hands and notice that your fingers have tied themselves in knots, and you didn't consciously realize how nervous you were until this moment. "Fair enough. So, what else do you want?" Now or never, you think, and you haven't been a big fan of 'never' for a long time. You set your jaw and he sits up straighter. "You." He's grinning again and he looks so smug and you can't help it anymore, you lean over, fully intending to kiss him senseless, but he stops you.

"Just a minute," he says, taking off his jacket and patting the pocket that holds a toothbrush. "Wouldn't want that to get damaged," he says smugly as he lays his jacket on the table and you scoff. "I hate you," you say even though you can't muster even an ounce of venom in your voice. "You love me," he says without thinking and his smile fades as he realizes his mistake, and you're worried he's going to want to talk, and you really, really don't feel like talking and it's your birthday so you shouldn't have to do anything you don't want to, so you kiss him as intensely as you can and hope you'll make him forget whatever things he had to say that you're not ready to hear. He shouldn't be so embarrassed, what he said is as true as what you did. (You hate him, you hate him so much, but somehow you manage to love him so much more.)

He lifts you from the couch so effortlessly and you've forgotten, you've forgotten what it's like to be held by him, like you can pretend you're safe even though you know you're not, like he's the only thing standing in between you and the cold, harsh world outside your window, like you don't have to feel alone anymore. He carries you to your bed and hovers over you, but his eyes are soft and kind and somehow that makes your heart ache more than when his eyes are dark and clouded with lust. He whispers your name, but you don't want to hear it, you don't want to talk, you cut him off and arch your back so you can kiss him, so you can slide his shirt from his skin, so you can remember how he feels beneath your fingertips. 

He's not moving fast enough, he's air and you're suffocating, you've been suffocating for days, for weeks, you're not sure why but you need him more than you have in a while, and you don't want to wait any longer. You finally manage to work his shirt far enough up that he leans back to take it the rest of the way off and, _oh_ , you're so glad he's here, you're so glad he remembered your birthday, you're so glad that he hasn't left for good yet, and you might not deserve him, but you need him more than anyone else does and that's probably never going to change. He looks down at you again, and you're about to ask him what's wrong when he whispers your name, more desperately this time. 

"Yeah?" you say, even though your throat feels dry. "I want you," he replies, his voice dark and deep, and it is unbelievable and almost cruel how much of a reaction only his voice can elicit from you. You don't want to say anything to prolong the unnecessary conversation he keeps wanting to have and your hands never leave his skin as you maintain eye contact with him, never blinking, not once. "I'm already yours," you respond and you wish you'd said it hours ago, months ago, years ago, because his expression changes and he finally leans down to kiss you the way you need him to and his hands are exactly where he knows you like them and this is it, this is the moment you've been aching for, this is the reason why you keep doing this, why you keep letting him in the door, why you'll never shut him out, even if you want to, even if you know you should. He's air and you are suffocating, he's right even though you feel so wrong, he's a gift from the heavens and galaxies, he's not perfect and neither are you, but he is here right now and he is everything you need. (You know you'll never deserve his forever, but if you can deserve his right now, that's more than enough.)

For once, you don't wake up in the middle of the night. For once, you sleep soundly until he wakes you up as he nuzzles his face in the back of your neck and you're not sure whether or not to pretend to still be sleeping. "Aren't you cold?" he asks, and you're not sure how he knew you were awake. "I'm fine. Are you cold? I can turn up the heat," you suggest, your voice still gravely from sleep. "No, I was just worried about you." You close your eyes and he kisses your shoulder. "What did you have planned for today?" he asks gently. "Nothing really. Right now, I just want to sleep." He nods against your skin and you hope he doesn't know how much better you sleep in his arms. "Whatever you want." He readjusts his hold of you and sighs heavily. 

You don't remember falling asleep when you wake up again, and he's not next to you, but you hear clanking noises and you know he's trying to turn the leftovers in your fridge into a five-course meal, so you sit up and rub at your eyes, even though you know you look like a mess. He notices that you're awake and carries over some coffee. He laughs when he sees you up close and you shy away, grumpy. "I know, I look awful." He shakes his head and chuckles. "No, you just haven't looked this much like an angry frog in a while." You can't help it, you laugh. "We can't all be Greek gods," you grumble as he hands you a mug of coffee. He's teasing you and being as normal as he's been in a long time and your heart is breaking over and over again because you could have this, you could have mornings like this for the rest of your life if only one of you was different, or if the world was different, or if he thought you were worth all his mornings. (If this hadn't been doomed from the start.)

He sits down next to you and grabs the remote to turn on your stereo. You don't recognize the song that he's playing, but you don't really feel like trying to figure it out either. "You have no food, did you know that?" You nod and take another sip of the very strong coffee he knows you've been living on. "That's probably why you keep losing weight every time I see you." You shrug. "I ate last night." He chuckles. "Are you out of money?" he asks gently. "I'm fine. Just too busy to keep the cabinets stocked." He leans back against the wall and folds his arms loosely. "If you want, I can bring you something to stock." You shake your head. "I'm fine," you insist. "Yeah, I can tell. But really, my mom sends me so much food these days, I can't possibly eat half of it." You shake your head again, because you knew that was where he was getting food from and that is a line that you are never, ever, _ever_ going to cross. It might not matter to anyone else in the world, but it feels heavy and symbolic and wrong to you. "It's not your mom's job to feed me. She wants you to eat it, you should." He nods slowly. "So, whose job is it?" 

"Oh," you say before you can stop yourself and to his credit, he only looks a little confused. "Once upon a time, it was mine. Whose job is it now?" You stare into your coffee cup because for once you really wanted to pretend, you wanted to pretend you were a normal person spending your normal birthday with the person you... want to pretend could be yours. You don't want to talk, but he doesn't have anything else to keep himself occupied with, so your only option is to talk, at least a little. "It's mine, it always should have been mine." 

"You're fired," he says. "What, are you dying to get your job back?" He shrugs and you're trying to shrug it off too, you're trying to turn it into a joke and act like it's not a big deal, like none of this is a big deal, like the fact that he's in bed with you isn't a big deal and the fact that he probably has to leave soon isn't a big deal and the fact that he might not come back someday isn't a big deal, you're trying so hard but you feel like you're suffocating, you feel like your head will finally explode from all the stress and you feel yourself spinning out again until he captures your attention again. "Give me my job back. Just on a trial basis. You can fire me again if you want."

"I'm not going to steal food intended for you." You don't really know his mom, but she seems lovely and polite and even though you know she wouldn't mind him sharing her food with his friends, you have a feeling she still might mind if she found out you were one of those friends. "Then give me your card and I'll go to the store." You shake your head, even though you're having a hard time paying attention. "Someone will see you, you can't." He rolls his eyes. "Even former celebrities have to eat," he says decidedly as he jumps up from the bed, almost sending your coffee flying across the room. Former, you think solemnly, because somehow it's still sinking in. "I'll run out for food and you should take a shower and think of what you want to do after we eat." He takes a few steps toward the corner where your pants ended up last night to grab your wallet before he stops and turns back around. "Unless you want to wait for me to get back to shower."

He really shouldn't be able to make you blush like that, but he can. "What if somebody sees you? What if they notice you're using my card?" He sighs heavily. "Nobody cares anymore. Isn't that the point?" You feel stunned by his words. "That's not the point. That's not the point at all." He grabs your wallet from the floor. "Couldn't it be?" God, you wish he wouldn't say things like that. God, you wish he wouldn't say things and do things and make you feel things that he has no intention of taking responsibility for. God, you wish he'd leave already so you could cry this out in the shower before he comes back. "If that was what you wanted," you whisper, "it would be."

"What?" he says, and you can't believe you actually said something softly enough that he couldn't hear you for once. "Don't spend too much. My gas bill was high again." He nods. "Just the necessities." He walks back over to you and kisses your hair. "On second thought, you should definitely shower before I get back." He's teasing and you're not hurt by it, but you can feel tears starting to gather and you hope he doesn't notice before he leaves. He doesn't. (If he ever did, maybe things wouldn't be the way they are right now.)

You weren't lying about the gas bill and you're debating whether or not to take a cold shower when you remember that it's your birthday and you deserve a hot shower, and also you feel achy and uncomfortable and stressed and a little hot water couldn't possibly hurt. You step under the shower, weak water pressure and all, but at least it's warm and loud enough to block out some of your thoughts. 

Not the dangerous ones, not the ones you'd like to erase. Mainly the ones that tell you that he's bored with you, that you have to step it up or he'll leave for good next time. He mentioned that you're too skinny, should you try working out again? Didn't he like you before you worked out? Everything that's happened over the past two years is such a blur and you don't remember anything starting and you don't remember anything ending, all you remember is this endless limbo, you remember airplanes rides and hotel beds and ill-advised 3am confessions, you remember lots of drinking and idiotic fights and crying in showers, you remember everything, but you don't remember when it started, all you know is that it's never ended. (No matter how much you try to imagine the actual end, it never seems plausible enough.)

You don't waste too much hot water, you hold back your emotions and wipe off the mirror to look at your sunken features. One night of good sleep does not make up for months, for years of less than satisfactory slumber, and if you were never quite sure what he saw in you in the first place, then you sure as hell don't know what he could possibly see now. He's right, you have dropped a couple more pounds and your skin looks dull, you look lifeless. Everything you see makes you more convinced that you have no idea why he keeps coming back to you, because if it was really just all about sex, he surely would have found someone else by now. (If it was about more than sex, he could've have found someone to give him the future he deserves by now.)

You feel about as put together as you've been a month by the time he gets back, and you guess you must be right because he kisses you to say hello and wraps his arms around your waist while you pile ramen into a cupboard. "Did you miss me?" he asks, and maybe you should go back to pretending you're a normal person having a normal birthday because you almost burst into tears right then and there. "Did you miss me?" you say in a desperate attempt to turn any of this around on him. "Is that a new way of saying yes?" You turn away, focus on unpacking the other bag he brought back. "No one recognized me, you'll be happy to know."

"We probably don't have to be as careful anymore," you muse, even though you don't exactly remember ever being careful in the first place. "Want to watch a movie or something? After I finish cooking..." You nod. "I'll set up the computer." He finishes cooking instant food in a flash and you're actually hungry, so you eat quickly. He keeps chiding you and saying you'll make yourself sick, but part of you thinks he'll have to stay longer to take care of you if you do, so you keep shoveling food into your mouth. He puts on a shockingly boring movie, but you don't mind because you can't focus on something as trivial as a movie with your head on his chest and his arm around you. You have an idea, you sit up suddenly and lean over him to grab a pen from your makeshift nightstand before resting your head back down on his chest. 

"You okay? Song lyrics or something?" You shake your head as you hold his hand in yours, take the cap from the pen, scrawl a few numbers in ink on his palm, replace the cap. You blow softly on the ink to dry it, check that it won't smudge by pressing a kiss to the combination on his hand. "What is it?" He pulls you closer to him so he can examine his hand. "What do you think? I wouldn't want you to freeze to death in 60-degree weather." It didn't seem like anything significant when you thought of it, but a smile breaks out on his face the second he sees the number and he looks up at you like he's won something, and it makes your heart feel heavy, like you've walked into some kind of trap. "I totally could've guessed this," he quips. "Yeah, right." He's full of shit and you know it because you picked your code deliberately, months ago when you thought you should probably try to let him go, to shut him out, to move on. (You've since decided to stop lying to yourself about your abilities where he's concerned.)

He falls asleep about twenty minutes into the movie he chose and you prop yourself up on your arm to make sure he's actually asleep, and before long you realize you're staring at him and this time it's not because he's beautiful. (Even though he still is, even when napping. Loser.)

 _What do you see in me?_ you wonder as you stare at him, hoping you can telepathically force the answer from his head. _Why are you still here? Why aren't you sick of me yet?_ If you ever had the chance to get an answer to one question, you'd probably ask something like that. _Why do you keep coming back?_ Eventually, you give yourself a headache and return to resting on his chest. You close your eyes, suddenly deciding that even more sleep is exactly how you want to spend your birthday, but he runs a hand along your arm so you know that he's awake again. You could take advantage of his groggy state, you could ask him for the answers you've been longing for, but you're too scared of the consequences. (Why do you only want answers to questions that have the power to destroy you?)

"Sorry," he mumbles, "I really didn't mean to pass out on you." You clear your throat out of habit. "Are you getting enough sleep?" you ask, because you worry about him a lot too. "Yeah, I am. You're just too comfy." Warmth floods your heart at the simplest of words when they come from his mouth and you feel like an idiot for falling for it over and over again. "My fatal flaw," you say, but the words taste wrong as they leave your mouth. "Ah, I see. Well, then what's mine?" _Me,_ you think without even trying. _Your only flaw is me._ "You smell good," you say to keep up the bit you started unintentionally. "Could be worse, I guess." 

"You're leaving, aren't you," you say flatly, because it's never a question. "Not yet," he responds, but it doesn't make you feel any better. "What else do you want for your birthday?" he asks and you never realized how much you wanted until you had a birthday to use as an excuse. "Nothing really." Yeah, that's mostly a lie. You want him to stay, you want to play house a little longer, you want to forget about the past and the future and focus on the present, but that's not something that's ever worked out for you before and it doesn't seem likely to start now. "Are you sure? This opportunity doesn't come every day, you know." You nod. "In that case, can we just stay like this a little longer?" He chuckles and it almost sounds colored by sadness. Almost. "If that's all you can think of, sure. But you shouldn't let this chance pass you by..." I'm not, you think quickly. This is the best birthday I've had in a while. 

"So," he begins, and you know there's no way he's about to say anything good, "about what I said last night..." You shake your head almost on instinct. "No," you say plainly. "No?" he asks and for once he doesn't sound amused, he sounds cautious. "Whatever you're going to say, don't." You can feel him relax a little, so you feel a little more relaxed too. "It's my birthday and I don't want you to say it, so you can't." Now he sounds amused again as he chuckles deeply at your childishness. (Add that to your never-ending list of reasons why this can't work, the difference in your outlooks and life stages.)

"Well, then, can I at least say I'm sorry?" _Sure,_ you think, but what for? For stating the truth? For speaking without thinking? For calling you out? You've never expected him to apologize for those kinds of things before, why on earth would you start now? "You can, but you don't have to." He sighs. "I want to. I am sorry." His apologies have only served to make you feel guilty for months, or maybe it's more like years now, because you're still trying to figure how what part of this is his fault, what he even has to be sorry for. He should be sorry he started this with you in the first place, what does he have to feel sorry to you for? All he's ever done is try to give you what you want. (And sometimes he even succeeded.)

"I'll forgive you if you kiss me," you say, a sudden burst of boldness flaring up again. "Promise?" You nod as you turn to face him and you lose your breath when you find his eyes, you always feel lightheaded when that look flickers across his face, the look that says he means it this time, the look that says he's all yours, the look that says he'll always come back to you eventually, the look that says he's about to kiss you not because you asked, but because he wants to. "I promise," you manage to say out loud before his hands are in your hair and his breath is in your lungs and you have to try not to cry again because even after everything that's happened, everything that you've put each other through, somehow this still feels more right than anything else ever has in your entire life and you're not sure if you'll ever feel this right again. 

(Eventually he has to leave again and you don't want to let him, but you don't have a choice so you tell him you have plans with a friend anyway, which you actually do, so he won't worry and you ask him to kiss you again as your last birthday gift even though he laughs and says you really didn't need a wish for that, and you find his toothbrush sitting in the bathroom next to yours and you suppose you should've known that would be the kind of thing to finally lead to your inevitable breakdown on the bathroom tile and you should really be done crying over this by now, but you're not, not even close.)


	25. pt. 25

(Yijeong POV)

...

You fell asleep alone, but you're not alone when you wake up and you can't believe you didn't hear him come in. This is not the first time this has happened, but you wouldn't be surprised even if it were because you knew exactly what you were setting yourself up for when you gave him a way to get into your place on his own. You're kind of hoping he'll wake up too, but he doesn't even stir when you roll over and push his hair from his face. You're not sure why he's here tonight, or why he came in so late. Maybe he was with his friends and your place was closer than his, or maybe he missed you, but in all honesty you don't really care much what the reason is anymore, as long as he's here. You don't care about much else when he's here. (You care about even less when he's not.)

You reach under your pillow to grab your phone and check the time. It's still fairly dark outside, but it's already 6:45 and you know if you go back to sleep now, you'll probably feel worse when you wake up again so you try not to disturb him as you get out of bed to turn on your coffee maker and wash your face. He's still sleeping when you return with your coffee, and you're starting to think alcohol must have been involved in his late night arrival so you finish your coffee and lay back down next to him, play around on your phone and wait for him to wake up. 

"You're like an old man," you hear him say after about an hour of browsing on your phone. "What?" He chuckles. "You're reading the weather forecast first thing in the morning." You click your phone off and set it down behind you. "I've been up for ages, I read everything else." You hesitate for a moment, but he's the one who showed up unannounced in your bed, so you figure it's safe to rotate your position to kiss him. (You've waited hours, after all.)

"Good morning," you say as you pull back slightly and he reaches up to touch your hair. "You were asleep early," he points out, "it was barely after midnight when I got here." You kiss him again, just because you want to. "Are you trying to say you're proud of me?" He scoffs. "No, I'm trying to say you're really getting old." You fake a laugh sarcastically and he looks pleased with himself. "You and me both," you reply. "What time is it?" he asks. "8 or so." He grimaces. "Still too early." He wraps you in his arms and kisses your hair once, twice, three times. "I have work," you whine, but you already know he doesn't care about that. "It's the weekend. You're mine on the weekend." _I'm yours all the time,_ you think, but you don't dare say it because he probably already knows, but if by some miracle he doesn't, you don't want to be the one to tell him. "I'm busy too, you know. Even on the weekends."

"So you want me to leave?" he asks, fake pout and all. "No, but I can't laze around all day. I have things I have to get done." You know you have things to accomplish, but your memory doesn't work very well when he's here, when you're in his arms, when he wants you to be with him. "Can't you put them off for a little while? It's the weekend,” he whines again and you know this whole situation is ridiculous, but you don't really feel like getting out of bed anymore anyway, so you relent. "I can give you an hour," you decide and he nods strongly. "I can work with that," he says before he's kissing you and you're so glad he's finally awake because it feels like no one's touched you in months even though it's only been a couple weeks since he last snuck into your place. He stops kissing you way sooner than you think he should and pulls away from you to reach for his phone, which vibrates harshly on the bedside table. You take a deep breath. "Don't answer it," you say, but it comes out sounding weak. "It could be important."

"Then, check if it's important and don't answer if it's not." He grabs his phone and turns back to you. "Why?" he asks, and you're annoyed with the person who dared to call him so early in the morning and you're annoyed at him for pretending to misunderstand you and you're annoyed at yourself for letting him get to you, again. "Because it's the weekend," you respond as an explanation. _You're not always mine, but you're mine on the weekend._ He presses his screen to ignore the call and turns off his phone, sets it down on the bedside table and turns back to face you once more. "I'm all yours," he says with a smirk before he pulls you into his arms to give you all the proof you need. (Or, at least, all the proof he has to give you.)

You should be working, but he passed out again while holding you tightly to his chest and even though you feel sweaty and overheated, you can't bring yourself to get up, not when he's right here, not when you're in his arms, not when you're not sure if he'll ever hold you like this again once he stops. Uncertainty circles inside of your head the way it always does these days and the only way to block it out seems to be using him as a distraction. (He has always been an excellent distraction.) 

You still feel a little smug that he ignored his phone for you, even turned it off so he could give you all of his attention. Maybe it didn't mean much to him, but it must have meant a lot to you because your heart still feels heavy with the knowledge. When you're finally ready enough to get up, he notices you're leaving and reaches out to grab your arm. "I have to get some work done," you say as you pull your arms from his grasp gently. "Okay, just give me a minute." He sits up and rubs at his eyes harshly. You slide closer to him and play with his tangled bangs, he smiles softly and your heart aches. "I just wanted to tell you I'm going overseas in a few days." 

 _Why is he telling me this?_ you wonder. For a second, only a second, you think he might be asking you to go with him. It's happened once before, eons ago, when he asked you to come and meet his friends, to hang out and get to know them. You couldn't say yes then any more than you could now, and your excuse would be the same as it was months and months ago. You’d tell him you have to work and it wouldn’t be a lie but it wouldn’t really be the truth either because the truth is that all you want to do is run away with him and that's exactly why you can never do it. Because you're not the type to risk everything when there are no guarantees, and you've rarely wanted something that offered fewer guarantees than him. You're working yourself up for nothing and you know it for sure when he says, "I just didn't want you to wonder why I wasn't here next weekend." Of course he's not asking you to go, he probably doesn't want to anyway but even if he did, he knows you'd never agree to something that risky. "When are you coming back?"

His expression changes, like he didn't think you'd ask any questions, like you wouldn't be brave enough to wonder. "I don't have many days off, I just won't be here next weekend." Why weren't you here last weekend? you want to ask, but you have a sinking feeling you don't want to know the answer so you shove down your curiosity and nod in affirmation. "Have fun," you say instead of asking more questions and you think he looks relieved. "Thanks. Is there anything in your fridge?" You shrug. "I went shopping a couple nights ago. There should be something." He turns and stands up from your bed, reaches for his clothes and gets half-dressed. "You get started on your project and I'll make some breakfast and then I'll go." You want to tell him not to go, but you can't work well, or maybe at all if he's here so you suppose it's for the best. (You're getting tired of trying to do what's best for you.)

He bangs around in your kitchen and you turn on your computer before you change into some new clothes, and you really weren't planning on it but you're cold so you put on his hoodie and zip it up on top of your own t-shirt. He brings you food twenty minutes later and notices you're wearing his clothes almost immediately. "Are you trying to make it so I have to stay?" he teases but it doesn't feel like a joke and you bristle slightly, start to unzip the hoodie but he stops you, wraps his hand against the back of your neck. "Keep it. If you're aren't going to turn up your heat, you're going to need it." You cross your arms, the sleeves of his hoodie sliding down to cover your hands. "It's not that cold," you lie. "Keep the hoodie and eat your breakfast," he demands, probably out of habit. How long has he been taking care of you, forcing you to remember to eat, dragging you out of your room and away from work for a few hours, taking care of you when you're sick? It’s no wonder you don't know how to take care of yourself, he's been doing it ever since you left home. It's not all his fault, most of the blame still falls on you, but it's still something that you share with him, even just a little. (Maybe that's the only part of this that's his fault.)

You eat quickly out of habit before remembering that he'll leave as soon as you’re finished, so you slow down. He sits on the end of your bed and messes around on his phone, waits for you to finish eating. You remember that you won't see him for a couple weeks and all of a sudden there's a lump in your throat that you try to swallow past, but you can't. You don't want to cry into your breakfast, you thought those days were over, you don't know what to do so you push your plate aside and stand up from your chair. He notices you moving toward him, but he doesn't say a word. He lets you take his phone from his hands and set it aside on the mattress, he lets you climb into his lap and bury your head in his shoulder, he wraps his arms around your waist, but he still doesn't say anything. _I miss you,_ you think. _Maybe I miss you when you're here even more than when you're gone, but that's still a hell of a lot._ You think he wouldn't understand even if you said it out loud, you think he'll never understand how much more it hurts when he's here and always moments away from leaving you. (He wouldn't understand because sometimes you can't even believe this can hurt any more than it normally does.)

It's ridiculous, but you feel as if you haven't been held, just held in a really long time and if there's anyone you want to hold you, it's him. It's always him. You take the chance and he lets you hug him as long as you want, with his arms wrapped around your waist and for once he isn't the first one to let go, but that only serves to break your heart a little bit more and you think you should probably do something to stop this, but it's too late. Months too late. Years too late. (A lifetime too late.)

"I really do have work to do," you whine, with your face still buried in his shirt and he chuckles, wraps his arms more tightly around you. "I believe you. I was going to leave, you know, but I'm a little trapped at the moment." God, you wish that were true. You wish you could trap him, you wish you could keep him here with you, you wish you didn't ever have to let him go, but if one of you is trapped here, you're certain it's not him. He can come and go as he pleases, you're the one who's stuck standing still, waiting for him, hoping he won't leave for good, not this time, not yet. "Not that I'm complaining," he adds, a smile spreading on his face. "You'd better not be," you reply and you finally relax a little in his arms, some of the tension finally breaks and leaves your muscles and all you're left with is his arms around your waist and his skin against your cheek. (This may be as much you ever get, but right now that doesn't seem quite so bad.)

Eventually, you have to let go of him. Eventually, you always have to let go of him. (It’s just that he usually lets go of you first.) You lean back slowly, let yourself look at him honestly for the first time in a while, because for once your head isn’t clouded with endorphins and whatever alcohol he brought along. This time, your eyes are clear and your heart is in shreds and he is beautiful, somehow more beautiful than the last time he was here, and he is everything, even after everything, and you’re still nothing but broken and afraid, even though you keep trying not to be. (He doesn’t really scare you anymore, you’re only afraid of yourself now.) “What’s with you?” he finally says, his eyes trained on yours. “I’m just going to miss you,” you explain, but what you really mean is I’ll be here waiting for you. What you really mean is come back to me. (What you really mean is stay.)

You climb out of his lap and sit next to him on the edge of your bed. He looks down at his hands and then over at you. “I won’t be gone very long, you won’t even have time to remember to miss me.” I miss you right now, I won’t forget while you’re gone, you think to yourself, but you’ve already kept him here long enough and saying anything else will only make this harder. “Will you miss me?” you say, trying to smile like you’re making a joke but your eyes betray you, as they often do. He chuckles and you feel like you’ve made a mistake. “I always do,” he says and even though you’re sure it’s a lie, you let his words comfort you a little. (Because if he misses you, that means he’ll always come back to you someday.)

(Later in the week, he texts you from a million miles away to tell you that he misses you and that he’s not having as much fun as he thought he would and that it could be because you’re not with him, and even though you know he’s only sending you empty words, you let yourself believe that you still have some kind of effect on him even after all of this time, the way he will always have an overwhelming effect on you.)


	26. pt. 26

(Yijeong POV)

You’re standing outside of his apartment building and you’re not sure how you got here or if he’s here or exactly what you’re going to say if he is, but you put all of that aside as you press the buzzer and wait for the door to unlock. It does a moment later, even though his voice never echoed through the intercom to find out who you are. You should tell him that could be dangerous. (You should tell yourself that this is dangerous.)

You thought he’d be surprised to see you, but he doesn’t seem surprised at all when he opens the door and steps aside to let you in. You slide your shoes from your feet and follow him into the living room where he finally speaks. “How did you know I’d be home?” You shake your head. “I didn’t.” 

“Well, if you came all the way here, it must be important.” You take a deep breath. “I wanted to tell you that I think we have to stop this, but not yet.” Now the confusion sets in and he wrinkles his forehead. “What do you mean? Stop what?” Your heart seems like it’s beating a billion times a second and your courage is fading the longer you look into his eyes, you have to do something now, you came all the way here, you have to go through with this. You reach him in three steps, pull him down to you with two hands, try to move close enough to become one before you pull back slightly to give him an answer. “We have to stop this. But not quite yet.” Recognition finally flickers in his eyes and he starts to say something, but you cut him off before he can get a word out, distract him the only way you know how. “No talking rule,” you whisper, already feeling short of breath. He nods before lifting you into his arms and carrying you to his bedroom. (If this was a different night, you might even think this was special.)

Time passes slowly, but not nearly as slowly as you were hoping, and later on he lays next to you silently, resting on his side and staring at the side of your face. He’s letting you do all the talking, he hasn’t said much since you left the living room and he doesn’t seem like he’ll start now, he’s respecting your rules for some reason and he won’t break the silence until you let him. “Now I think it’s time for this to stop,” you say finally, replacing the former tension in the room with a newer, less friendly kind. “Why?” he says, and his voice is rough enough to make it sound like he cares. (It’s enough to make you feel like you’re making a mistake.)

“I don’t think this should happen anymore,” you rephrase yourself. “That doesn’t answer my question.” You sigh, sit up near the middle of his bed, pull your knees close to your chest, stare at the wall across from you without blinking. “We’re both busy, we have lots of other things going on, more important things to focus on than this.” He rolls onto his back, sighs slowly, formulates his response quickly. “You said you’d wait. Did you get sick of that?” If only you were sick enough to stop. (You must be sick if you’re still not ready to stop.) “No. That’s as true now as it was when it said it.” Truer, even. “Then why are you giving up all of a sudden?” 

“It’s not all of a sudden, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I just... don’t think I can do this anymore. Always be around when you want me to, always do what you want me to, and I don’t want you to say it’ll change or that you’ll try harder or anything like that. I just think this needs to stop.” _Before I lose everything, again._ He’s not looking at you anymore and you know he’s trying to scheme, or come up with an empty promise that will change your mind, but you’re not going to let him get to you this time. You can’t. (You shouldn’t.) 

“Why do you think it’ll be any different this time? Don’t you remember how many times we put on the brakes? We never actually stop for long.” He’s not wrong but it’s still frustrating, especially because you know you’ll never be the one to stop things for good. You just have to keep trying. “I’m not saying we need to stop forever, but I can’t keep this up. I can’t pretend I can handle everything anymore. Something has to stop. This has to stop.” Now the tears begin to fall and you try to stop them, but you fail quickly and lower your head, rest it on top of your knees, try to keep your sobs from escaping by holding your breath. “What happened? Why are you saying this of a sudden?” He rests his hand on your back, but you shake it off because it’ll only make you cry even harder and you’re trying so, so hard to stop. “If this doesn’t end now, I don’t think I’ll be okay when it happens later.” At this point, you’re not even sure that there will anything left of you when this finally ends. “Then we just won’t end it,” he says, and you honestly wish you could believe him, but you know you can’t. “You can’t promise that. Neither can I.”

“Then we won’t make promises, we’ll just...” he trails off because he knows it’s not a solution. “Just doing this anyway is why we’re here right now.” You’re not saying it to blame him, but you’ve never said it before and you feel like he deserves the truth. “I’m not ready to lose you,” he says and your heart continues breaking, because you want to believe he’s not ready because he cares about you, because he wants you, but you know that’s not his motivation. You’ve always wanted to believe him, when he says he wants you, when he says he’ll change, when he tells you he loves you reflexively, but you know people are usually lying when they say those kinds of things to you and he hasn’t really ever proven otherwise. “Is this really what you want or is it just what you think you should do?” he asks after a pause and you know he’ll see through you if you lie but if you tell the truth, that will be the end of your valiant attempt to end things with him. (This has got to be your last chance to save yourself from any more fallout.)

“You know I can’t answer that,” you whisper and he sits up next to you. “Well, now I know your answer anyway. Look,” he begins, reaching over to touch your hair gently. “I can’t change your mind if you want to stop. But if that’s not what you want... can’t we just skip the part where we break up and have to make up again?” He touches your cheek and smirks. “Not that I don’t like making up, but...” He’s right, but the way he’s phrasing it makes it sound like you’re in a relationship and that’s something you’ve always known this will never be. “I had to try,” you tell him weakly before he wraps you in his arms and you let him even though you know it’s the final nail in your coffin. “I know you don’t want promises, so I won’t make any. But, you know... just because I come over when I want you, it doesn’t mean that you can’t tell me when you want me to.” 

“You’re too busy for that,” you say, and even though it’s true, the real reason is that you’ve rarely been brave enough to want him openly and you feel less brave than ever these days. “I’m not too busy for you.” You shake your head weakly because you shouldn’t believe him anymore, but you’ve already given up. “So, what about you?” you mumble quietly. “Hmm? What about me?” You lean back so you can look at him and he looks so calm and at peace that it’s almost upsetting to you because, once again, you’re a complete and total mess and he’s unscathed. “Are you saying this because you want to or because you think you should?” He doesn’t even blink as he looks at you, as he reaches up to swipe at a stray tear on your cheek before he responds to you. “I’m saying it because it’s true,” he says after a moment, and you think the two of you must each have a different definition of truth. 

“So, are you staying?” he says, almost hesitantly, and you think it’s an unnecessary question. “You’re not getting rid of me tonight,” you whisper, and you hope he doesn’t want to get rid of you at all. “Have you eaten anything recently?” he asks and you shrug. “What sounds good?” You shrug again. “If I order something, will you eat it?” You nod because you know he’ll be disappointed if you refuse to eat. “Okay, give me a minute,” he says as he reaches for his phone. 

Half an hour later, you’re eating delivery food in his bed and watching a movie and didn’t you come here to end this? Didn’t you come here to stop yourself from getting hurt again? You’ve tried to stop this before and it never goes according to plan, so this time you’re not going to try anymore. If it’s going to end, he’ll have to be the one to end it. Anything else is a waste of effort. (You don’t have any energy to waste these days.)

“This movie’s kind of dumb,” you remark softly, reaching out to grab another dumpling with your chopsticks. “It’s a classic,” he says, “you have to respect a classic.” You nod and chew slowly. “I’ll respect it, but I don’t have to think it’s good just because it’s a classic.” He sighs. “Our tastes really don’t match well...” You feel like you need to disagree with him, like that’s what he wants, but he’s not exactly wrong either. Most of the time, you don’t want the same things. Most of the time, your interests don’t match up. Most of the time, you’re not sure you have anything in common besides your jobs. “We match sometimes,” you say quietly, after a thoughtful pause, “when it comes to things that actually matter.” Like when he needs you as much as you need him. (Almost.)

“Like dumplings?” he suggests before plopping another one into his mouth. “Sure, like dumplings.” It doesn’t take long to finish the food he ordered and he moves the empty containers to the bedside table. “Are you cold?” he says, suddenly noticing your obvious lack of clothes. “A little,” you admit softly. “Well, let’s do something about that, hmm?” He wraps his arms around you and pulls you back down on his bed. “Better?” he asks, and you feel tears welling up again. “Yeah,” you whisper almost soundlessly. “I’ll change the movie if you really hate it that much.” You shake your head because the only thing you hate in this moment is yourself. (But that’s not really anything new.)

“I’m tired, it doesn’t matter what we watch,” you say softly, relax into his arms, close your eyes tightly, shut out reality and the world and all the thoughts in your head other than his skin and the way it feels against yours. Or, at least, you try. You try harder than you’ve tried in a long, long time. “I’ll probably be gone when you wake up. Just... I’m not leaving because I want to. Okay?” You hear him, but you don’t respond because your eyelids are so, so heavy and you haven’t felt this calm in a long time. You relax your muscles and let sleep take you away, but not before you feel his lips against your forehead and hear him whisper your name. 

He’s not there when you wake up and you have a meeting in the afternoon, but you let yourself explore his apartment for a while, raid the cupboards trying to find a snack before deciding you should go. His place is nice, but you’re suddenly reminded of a conversation the two of you had months and months ago and you know this isn’t his dream house, it isn’t where he wants to end up, but you also remember that his dream life only exists in the world where you don’t, and those are the kinds of things you’re trying not to think about these days. You know there’s no point in thinking about the future anymore, but you can’t help it. Sometimes you inevitably wonder where you’re going to end up, even though you know it probably won’t be good and it definitely won’t be with him. Before you leave, you find a note he left on the counter, a few numbers and words scrawled out in black ink, and you read it quickly before folding it up and putting it in your pocket. 

(He’d written, “Now we’re even,” above the four digit passcode to his apartment and you know you shouldn’t feel like this means something but somehow it seems like he’s letting you in more that he has before and it gives you a little bit of something that always lets you down in the end... hope.)


	27. pt. 27: 몇 년 후에 (a few years later)

[takes place in the future, au]

(Yijeong POV)  
...  
You're dreading everything about tonight. Every cell in your body is screaming at you to abandon this entire event as you walk into the restaurant, request your reserved table for five, sit down and order a glass of water while you wait for the rest of your party to arrive. You're about to bolt when Jaeho walks through the door, closely followed by Dokyun. Sihyung arrives a couple of minutes later, and the cloud of doom that's been growing inside you for hours now takes control. You watch the door, you don't even try to be subtle, it's years too late for subtlety. Your bandmates converse with each other, but they don't try to engage you until the bell on the restaurant door rings and he walks inside. 

You haven't seen him in months, but right now you can remember the last time so clearly, as if it's playing back in your mind like a movie. You thought you were doing fine, you thought you were handling everything fairly well, but then he walks to the table, smiling, looking intensely attractive in his casual attire and it's like you can't breathe, it's like it's happening all over again, it's like you've forgotten just how much you love him. (You never really forget.) He slides into the last empty chair, the one across from you, and his eyes are shining and he looks good, he looks so good and so happy and you feel it like a stab in the chest when you remember that you're not the reason why. (It gets worse when you remember that there was a time when you were.)

"Long time, no see," you hear Jaeho say. "Has it really been that long?" he says with a grin. "Six months," you say, catch his eye, lose your breath. His smile falters only slightly as he looks down the table. "We've all been busy," he says to excuse his absence in your lives. "It's just the way it is," you mumble as the waiter arrives to take your order. 

It takes three minutes for your drinks to be served and twenty-eight minutes for your food to arrive at your table, and you're already thinking that those should have happened in reverse. You eat quickly to compensate for the dizziness that's filling your head, you know you can't trust your mouth when you're drinking. "I see you learned how to eat while I was away," he teases. You stop, set down your fork, look up at him. "I guess there's a lot you missed," you say calmly before returning to your meal. Dokyun laughs awkwardly and tries to draw attention away from the situation by telling some probably fake, definitely ridiculous story about a traffic jam he'd been stuck in earlier in the week. You're grateful to him for that, for taking the attention away from you. 

Everyone takes turns describing what they've been up to for the past few months, but by the time it's your turn, all you say is, "I've been working." He nods. "We've all been doing our fair share of that," he adds to break the silence. "Does it feel like it's really been five years? Am I the only one who feels like we debuted last week?" Jaeho says and you're grateful to have the spotlight removed from you for a moment. "It's closer to five and a half now," Sihyung points out. "Time flies..." Dokyun muses, but you know the rest of that saying and you can't remember the last time any of this felt 'fun'. Definitely not today, not in this moment, because he's still looking at you and he still looks happy and it's apparent, probably to everyone, that you have only gotten more attracted to him over the past two years and this whole outing is only serving to piss you off even more. Whatever it is, it hasn't classified as 'fun' in years. (It's not fair, but you know it's still what you deserve.)

Eventually, someone suggests moving your little reunion to a karaoke room, but you make an excuse, you say you have to work, offer to pick up the tab. They try to persuade you, but only out of courtesy, they know you too well to think you're easily persuaded. They all stand from the table, except for one, except for the one sitting across from you. "I'm gonna stay a little longer," he says, and Dokyun eyes him for a moment before he nods. "Call me tomorrow, we'll get everything figured out." You want to say something, beg someone to stay with you, but he leans back in his chair and he stares at you and all your words vanish, you don't even know what you'd say. The rest of your band leaves and he reaches for his wallet, fishes around for his credit card. "I meant it when I said I'd pay," you tell him defensively. "You may have eaten a lot, but most of that tab is mine. I'll pay." You shake your head. "I can afford it, I don't mind." He's not insulting you, he's not implying that you're broke, not any more broke than you actually are, but it feels somewhat like an attack and it doesn't take much to put you on the defensive these days. 

Six months ago, Jaeho and Sihyung had teased you about seeing him behind their backs and you'd lost it, because what did they know? How could they possibly understand what this was like for you? What right did they think they had to bring it up? Why did they have to make assumptions and accuse you? Accuse you of things that you weren't even doing, not anymore. They'd stopped teasing you after that, and even though you thought that would make you feel better, in the end you just felt like it was another thing that had changed for the worse. 

"I'm paying, so deal with it," he says, pulling your thoughts back to the present. If he's paying, you think to yourself, may as well take advantage. You flag down the waiter and order another drink and you think he'll be annoyed, you think he might even leave, but he doesn't, he orders another drink himself. And then another, so you order another, and by the time you lose count, he finally asks for the bill. "What even happened between us?" he asks, slurring a bit, and maybe he's really forgotten, but you can't. (You've tried enough times to know for sure.)

Of course you hadn't seen each other much over the past two years. Of course things had changed and you'd been busy and you'd lost contact. It was inevitable. Maybe that night was inevitable too, that night when he'd shown up out of the blue at the door of your studio, your new one, the one that you have all to yourself. That night when he'd used his brief vacation time to see you. That night that you should always regret, that night you'll never be able to forget.

"Why are you here?" you asked, tried to sound harsh, even though your heart felt fluttery and he looked better than you remembered. "I wanted to see you." One simple phrase and you felt your resolve melting. "Nice digs," he said, inspecting your studio. "It's alright," you said. "How long has it been?" He shrugged. "A couple months," he answered. "How long are you staying this time?" You sat down on the couch and he looked down at you. "As long as you want." _So, you're staying forever?_ you thought, and even though you knew it was impossible, you wanted to try, you wanted to make him want to stay forever. (All you ever did was try.)

The sun was just beginning to rise before you realized why he'd come to see you, before he admitted what was really going on. "I met someone," he said abruptly, his eyes closed. "Is she pretty?" you replied, because your heart was breaking in his hands. He opened his eyes, but he still couldn't look at you. "She's... not you." You nodded once. "Isn't that what you want?" He shrugged. "It's never been a matter of what I want." You ran your hand through your hair and tugged at it. "You came all this way to tell me that?" He shook his head. "I came to convince myself that it would be the right choice, starting something with her. But maybe you're the only one who can convince me, so you should tell me if I'm doing the right thing. You're good at that, right?" He wasn't wrong, but he shouldn't have asked you anyway. "Do whatever you want," you replied weakly, stood up from where you rested in his arms, returned to work, turned away from him. 

"I'm going to go unless you ask me to stay," he said, gathered his clothes and got dressed. He'll never be able to understand how much you wanted to make him stay, but it only would have made it harder. You always knew he'd choose some pretty girl over you eventually, so you didn't say anything, focused on your work, tried to block it out when he leaned down to kiss the top of your head, when he apologized for everything, when he walked out the door forever. (When you almost ran after him and begged him to stay.)

You've been trying not to think about that night for six months, but right now it's all you can see, and you don't know what to do, you don't know how to cope with all of this, but you think you should start by going home and sleeping it off. "I'm coming with you," he says when you stand up, unsteady. "Go home," you tell him. "Not until you're home safe." You sigh loudly as he throws an arm around your shoulder and leads you out to hail a cab. You haul yourself into the backseat and rest your head against the door. "You're going to your studio, right?" he asks and you answer with a nod because your words would be more dangerous. He gives the driver the address and buckles himself into the seat, checks to make sure your seatbelt is fastened too. "If you get sick in this taxi, I'm not paying for it," he jokes. "I'm fine," you whisper, lean as far away from him as you can. It's not far to your studio, but the ten minute drive feels endless and you're tempted to jump out and walk the rest of the way, but he'd follow you and that would just prolong this. He pays the driver and you wish he wouldn't, but he follows you up to the door, chuckles while you fight with your keys, walks in behind you and closes the door. "I'm home safe, you can go."

"I missed you," he says. "Don't," you whine, sit down on the couch and pray you'll feel less out of control if you stop moving. "Don't say you missed me, don't say you're sorry, just go home and forget about me." He's never been good at following your orders, he sits down next to you. "I tried," he mutters softly. "Oh, that's right. So, how is she?" you say suddenly, gathering up your courage. He looks at you, his eyes warm and inviting. "She's..." he trails off, reaches toward you, rests his hand on your knee. "She wasn't you." Your head is pounding and your heart feels like it will surely burst this time and you're trying not to react, but it's too late, you feel tears welling up in your eyes, cascading down your cheeks. "I'm not asking for anything and I don't know what to do next, but... she was... she wasn't you."

"I missed you too," you whisper after a moment of silence, and you're falling apart again, and everything you've tried to do for months, everything you tried to forget is meaningless now because he's here and he's back for good and he's... still everything you've ever wanted. You turn to him, tears slipping down your cheeks, reach toward him, press your hands into his shoulders, push him back weakly. "You broke my heart," you choke out. "I know," he whispers. You push his shoulders again, even more gently this time. "You're gonna do it again." He shakes his head, looks more serious than he has in a year. "No, I'm not." 

"Yes, you are," you sob desperately, "but I'm gonna let you do it anyway." He sighs and you lean in to kiss him, you close your eyes more tightly than should be possible and you make it happen, you let it happen, because you always do, because you never had any other choice, because you are never getting over him. You're not surprised when he kisses you back, when he wraps an arm around your waist like it belongs there, like you belong with him, you're not surprised until he pulls away, until he holds your face in his hands and looks at you, really looks at you and smiles. "It's you," he breathes, "it's always you." It shouldn't matter, it shouldn't make your breath catch, it shouldn't melt your heart and cloud your mind, but it does matter, and your heart melts, and your mind freezes up because it's always been him for you, you've never considered anyone else, never, but you never imagined that he could possibly feel the same way about you. "It's always me?"

"It is always you," he whispers, kissing you for emphasis. "You're drunk," you point out, because you're scared and this can't be real and you can't fall back into this again, especially because this is real and you are falling. "Not anymore. _You're drunk,_ " he counters. "And?" you prompt, bite your lip because he's right, you're still dizzy and clouded, but now it's mostly because of him, because you're basically straddling his lap and your face is only inches from his and you've never been able to think straight when he's this close. "And that's why I'm not going to let you take this any further than you already have."

"You're not?" He grins. "I guess I just want it to be different this time. I want it to be more... real." Your heart is aching and all you want is to kiss him again, to kiss him forever, to find out if that's even possible, to kiss him for the rest of your life. (You'll never admit to that last part.) "Don't leave," you whisper and he nods. "I'm not leaving." He leans in to brush his lips against yours, almost agonizingly slowly, so gently that you're not sure if you're even touching at all. You climb out of his lap, settle for resting your head on top of his thighs. He cards his fingers through your hair and it feels so familiar and tender and loving that you think you might start crying again. "I really put you through hell this time," he says. "I put myself through hell," you explain, "I just used you as an excuse."

"What do you mean?" he says, genuinely confused. "I knew how this would end, I just did it anyway." You clear your throat, but it doesn't help you feel any less emotional, your throat is tight and your head hurts. "But I'm back now, so maybe it hasn't ended." You know it's never going to end, you've always known there was no way to make it stop, you'll always come running whenever he needs you and you'll always drop everything the second he wants you and you'll never stop feeling like he's the only thing that matters to you, the only thing that you have, the only thing that you want. "Maybe we just have to... see it through to the end."

"Maybe it doesn't have to end," he suggests. "Maybe," you mumble, but he must not believe you because he says, "Maybe I'll just prove it to you." He looks away for a moment, but you only want one thing right now, you only want to be in his arms, you only want to forget all these months you've spent without him. "I don't have any answers and I don't really know where we can go from here," he says and you nod absently. "What do you know then?"

"That I missed you and I want to be here. With you. If you want me..." he trails off because you sit up, turn to him, maintain eye contact. "I want you," you say firmly, "I will always want you." He smiles, and you think he almost looks relieved, like he had managed to convince himself that you could have changed your mind about him. "I think we should move back in together," he says. "What, the band?" He shrugs. "The band or just... the two of us..." You laugh harshly, suddenly, and he looks confused. "You don't want to?" he mutters, and he looks genuinely hurt. "I just wasn't expecting you to say that. Wouldn't it be harder to keep it a secret if we lived together?" 

"If we tell anyone who asks that we're roommates, wouldn't that make it easier? People believe what they want, they see what they want to see... we could spend as much time together as we want and no one would care, because we're roommates." You sigh. "You just want to be roommates?" He shakes his head. "You want to be roommates like we were before?" He shakes his head again. "No, I don't want to be roommates like before." 

"Oh," you whisper and he grins at you. "What do you say? You want to move in with me?" Your head is spinning and you feel out of control and you can't believe this is really happening, but it seems to be and you don't want to waste any more opportunities. "Are you sure you're not still drunk?" He chuckles. "You don't have to say anything now, just think about it, okay?" He looks nervous and you can't believe he thinks you could possibly say no to him, and you feel like you might start to cry if you think about it for one more second, so you take advantage of a different opportunity, you lean in to kiss him, you tuck your hands beneath his shirt, you pull him down on top of you. 

You don't know if this is real, you don't know if you can trust what you're feeling right now, you don't know where to go from here or if he'll change his mind or if he'll leave again, but you manage to put all of those worries aside, file your questions away in the back of your mind, focus on him, on this moment, on making up for so much lost time, and for a moment you let yourself believe that this isn't doomed, that this is what you deserve, that things will be different this time. 

(He thinks you're asleep, but you're not, and he thinks you can't hear him say that he loves you, but you can, and he thinks you can't forgive him for all that he's done, but you already have.)


	28. extra: missing scene one

(takes place between parts 6/7)

(Kyungil POV)  
...  
You finally have a little time off and it's the holiday season so you decide to go skiing because it's been a while and you could also use something to keep your mind off of recent events involving a certain member of your band. Or at least that was the plan, but when your friends were all booked, it was soon replaced by a different plan—to take your distraction along with you in order to attempt to distract him from everything he's been complaining about and frustrated with, everything except for you. (Does he even have anything else to be frustrated with?)

You had wanted to leave on the early side, but he was still asleep next to you after you hit the snooze button on your phone twice, and you didn't have the heart to interrupt, messing around on your phone and watching him sleep instead. By the time he finally woke up, you knew you wouldn't have as much time on the mountain to ski, but you also knew that this trip hadn't exactly been about skiing ever since the moment you invited him to go along with you. 

You were going to stop at a rest area and grab something to eat for lunch, but he passed out in the passenger seat after less than fifteen minutes on the highway, so you decide to keep driving. You can hear a rather insistent voice in your head reminding you that the first thing you ever learned about driving was to avoid distractions while doing it, but you can't help yourself, you can't stop looking over at him. One of your favorite songs is playing on the radio and his bangs are falling diagonally across his face and you can't control it, he looks peaceful and content and safe and you can't stop staring. (You can't stop even though you know you should.)

He sleeps until you park the car, turn off the engine and reach over to shake him awake. "Are you sure you have the energy for this?" He nods, rubs his eyes slowly. "I was up pretty late and I've gotten too used to sleeping in cars. Now it just happens." You get out of the car and gather your winter gear from the trunk. "Sorry I slept the whole way," he apologizes. "Yeah, because you're such an entertaining conversationalist when you're awake." You definitely deserve the blow that lands against your arm. 

He swears he knows how to ski, he's been telling you ever since you asked him to come on this trip with you, but his actions tell a very different story when the lift drops you at the top of the run and he topples his way down the slope. "I thought you said you'd done this before," you chide him once you come to rest at the bottom. "I have!" he insists. "When?" He shrugs. "Middle school." 

"Middle school?" you ask in disbelief. "Isn't it like riding a bike?" You chuckle softly. "Apparently not." You can't resist teasing him a little, but you don't really mean it, you don't actually mind, because you get to hold his hands and drag him down the mountain slowly, you get to smile at him when he starts to get the hang of it, you get to laugh at him when he falls to the ground and you get to help him to his feet and dust the snow from his winter coat. It feels almost normal, and you didn't realize it before but you think that might be the real reason why you invited him along, for the rare chance at one day of normal. No one knows who you are anyway, and if they do, they can't tell through the ski masks and helmets and goggles. (You hope.)

He spends the next two hours complaining about everything that goes wrong, whining about his boots, blaming the skis for tripping him, blaming the ski lift for dropping him off too abruptly and by the time it's getting dark, you think he might try to assign blame to the mountain itself. "What is your problem?" you ask, frustration building. "My problem? It's cold and my clothes are soaked and all my muscles are sore and I'm exhausted and my nose is running," he whines. "Then why did you come?" you snap. "Because I wanted to be with you," he explains, "but why did you ask me anyway? You would have had a much better time without me." He's pouting and his nose is red and his arms are crossed across his puffy winter jacket and you're not sure how to answer his question, but you know this was definitely worth putting up with his whining all day. "Don't die of shock, but I kind of wanted to be with you too." His expression softens immediately, his arms fall at his sides and he looks down at the snow beneath his boots. "You did?"

"I did, but if you're that miserable, we can leave," you tell him. "I just don't like doing things I'm not good at," he mumbles shyly. "Well, I guess we're lucky you're good at so many other things," you tease and he shoves your shoulder, loses his balance on the snow, falls over and lands on the ground. "You okay?" you ask, kneel down next to him and reach for his hand, help him sit back up. "I've fallen more than enough for one day, I'm getting used to it." You're falling too and you wish you could blame the patches of slick snow, you wish you could blame anything else, anything but him. (The truth is, you fell a long time ago.)

"Come on, let's get you warmed up," you say, haul him up to his feet. "Mmm, coffee." You shrug. "That wasn't what I had in mind, but I guess coffee works too," you say, anticipating his undoubtedly adorable reaction, and he doesn't disappoint. (Ever.) 

You make it back to the ski lodge and he goes to change into dry clothes while you order a couple of hot drinks. It's late but not late enough for the rest of the skiers to rush in before closing, so the lodge is relatively empty. When he's done changing, he sits next to you in front of the fire and happily takes a coffee out of your hand, gulps it down and smiles at you. "I'm sorry I got cold and cranky," he apologizes softly. "I'd be cranky too if I'd spent the whole day falling on my ass." He laughs abruptly. "I really was good at this once," he swears. "You make up for it in other ways."

"Really? What other ways are we talking?" He's gotten more comfortable with you lately, he's teasing you back instead of just blushing and rolling his eyes at your inappropriate comments. "I'd show you, but I think the staff would complain." His eyes grow wider as you lean in even closer to whisper, "I think it's time to get out of here."

If someone had told you this time last year that you'd be making out with him in the backseat of a car parked somewhere between a ski resort and your dorm, you would have called them crazy. 

If someone had told you this time last year that you'd be telling him you loved him as a reflex, a risky and regrettable and unsettlingly honest reflex, you would have told them they were nuts. 

If someone had told you this time last year that you'd be happy just to hold his hand and kiss him good morning and cook him breakfast and fall asleep to movies together, you would have laughed at them. (Because you'd have known they were right.)

But you're here, and he's here, and this is happening, and you've never been so willing to apply the word 'everything' to another person until now, you've never been willing to give up on your dreams for another person until now, you've never needed another person quite as much as you need him, and it's terrifying and it's exhilarating and it might not be sustainable, but it's more than worth it for now. 

"We should get back to the dorm," he tells you breathlessly, "I can't believe no one's checked up on us yet." You pull your phone from your jacket pocket. "I told them we were grabbing dinner on the way back," you say as you toss your cell into the front seat. "You thought of everything," he says proudly. "I did, so you'd better make it worth it." He snickers and lunges forward into your arms. "I haven't done something like this since... high school," you muse and he tenses up beneath your hands, and you regret making him uncomfortable immediately. "Who was she?" he says after a moment of hesitation. "Nobody important," you reply, a weak explanation. _Nobody compared to you,_ you think, but you don't dare to speak those sort of words, not when there is so much you don't know, not when you run the risk of hurting him every time you open your mouth. "I haven't done this ever," he confesses quietly. "What, made out in a car? Why not?"

He doesn't answer with words but with a look, a look that says, "Seriously?" He points to himself, looks down at his hands as he pulls them back from you. "You know who I was in high school," he mutters softly, and you shouldn't have asked, you shouldn't have brought this up in the first place. "What do you mean?" you ask, feigning ignorance because you don't know what to say, how to apologize for being insensitive, how to distract him from his past, distract him from yours. "Come on, there must have been guys like me at your school." _No,_ you think, _there was nobody even remotely like you._ (You hope you would have noticed if there had been.)

"I guess," you decide finally with a shrug. "Those guys probably didn't get a lot of girls, but they definitely didn't get many guys." Oh. Right. You're being insensitive again. You don't even know if he had a boyfriend in school, or a girlfriend, or any kind of relationship at all. You've never asked. "Maybe they did, I just never noticed." He knows you're lying, he knows you would have noticed, but he lets you lie to him anyway. "High school's a time for studying anyway, not hooking up in backseats," he explains. "I wasn't missing out on much. 

"You weren't?" He's teasing you because he doesn't want your pity, he doesn't want you to tell him those high school boys were idiots not to go for him, that you'll make out with him whenever he wants to make up for it, that he was just as worthy of attention when he was in school. He's teasing you so you'll change the subject, so he can distract you with his hands, and you don't have any choice but to let him. "Well, I'm not sure yet. How about you demonstrate the whole experience for me and then I'll decide?" You were right, he has gotten more confident and you're even more powerless against him than you were a few months ago. 

"What a logical suggestion," you say as you lean over to kiss him. "Please hold your comments until the end of the demonstration," you add, his face in your hands. "Okay, but I'm way better at this than skiing, right?" His eyes are sparkling but he bites his lip as he anticipates your answer, like he's worried you won't agree. "9 out of 10," you state, "and if you want, I can tell you how to make up that last point." He coughs out of surprise and you breathe the word _'cute'_ as you lean back in to show him exactly what he's been missing out on. 

(This is dangerous, this is probably wrong, but it hardly even feels real anymore and although you're taking a risk, you're fairly sure he's worth it.)


	29. extra: missing scene two

(takes place between parts 10/11)

(Kyungil POV)

...

He's gone and you're tired and feeling petty so you decide to make him call you twice before you actually pick up your phone. He's back home with his family for the weekend, hanging out with his friends and probably not getting into enough trouble, and you're here, moping around and being lame enough that your friends don't want to hang out with you anymore. (They can probably guess why you're in this state.)

"Am I interrupting something?" he asks when you finally answer his third call. "I was in the shower," you lie. "You don't usually... never mind," he trails off, embarrassed at how well he knows your routine, how easily he can tell that you're lying. "Are the guys around?" You sigh. "I think they're in the living room. Did you call me to talk to them?" 

"No," he says cautiously, "I just called to check in." He clears his throat. "What have you been up to?" You sigh into the phone and you know it makes him uncomfortable. "Nothing much. You?" He hums softly before answering. "Just hanging out with my friends. I just got back from a movie."

"Do you like it there better?" you ask abruptly. You're not sure why you feel so agitated, like you're missing out on an important piece of the puzzle, like you'd understand him better if he'd asked you to come with him. You couldn't have said yes, but he could have asked you to come and meet his friends, meet his family, sleep in his childhood room. He could have at least asked. (He didn't ask because he knew you'd say no.)

"What? I mean, it's more familiar and it's really great seeing my old friends but..." He sounds nervous, trying to explain himself to you for no good reason. "Well, then maybe you should just stay there," you interrupt roughly and regret the words as soon as they leave your lips. You think he might hang up on you, but you can tell he's still on the line, breathing into the receiver. "Shit. I guess I miss you more than I thought," you mutter lifelessly. "It's only been three days," he replies. "So?" This thing between you has always been imbalanced, it's a well established fact that he wants you more, he misses you more, he's more into you, so what the hell is happening to you right now? "So, you miss me." Secret's out, it's official, he should have known. "Of course I miss you. Who am I supposed to nag when you're not here? Who's going to make disgustingly strong coffee or pass out during movie night?" He chuckles. "Are you saying you need me to take care of you?"

"I'm saying... when are you coming back again?" Coming back used to mean returning to the dorm, but lately it means returning to you, and you're trying not to acknowledge it, but it's proving true in this moment. "I'll be home the day after tomorrow," he reminds you for the fifth time since he left, and you pretend that you're not relieved he thinks of this place as home. "That's a lot of days to make up for," you say. "I guess," he mumbles, and you can tell he's tired and you hope he's using some of this time to get some actual rest, so you should probably tell him to hang up. "Go to sleep." You could phrase it as a request, but he doesn't usually listen unless you make it an order. "I will, I just have to finish a couple things." You nod even though he can't see you, but you don't believe him. "Okay, but first you have to tell me exactly how you plan on making this up to me." You can see him in your head, he rolls his eyes and lays down on his side, presses the phone into his ear, closes his eyes and sighs. "I'm gonna kiss you."

"And then what?" you prompt, amused by the sleepiness in his voice. "Then you're going to kiss me back." You nod uselessly. "And after that?" He mumbles something in the phone, but you can't quite make it out. "Are you falling asleep on me? Am I that boring?" He's still breathing into the receiver and you can tell he's dozed off, and you're not nearly pathetic enough to consider staying on the line, but that doesn't mean you can resist whispering three simple syllables before you hang up for good, and it doesn't mean a part of you isn't hoping that he heard you. 

You're not counting the hours to his return and if you are, it's only because you have work to do, you have choreography to practice and set lists to finalize and foreign languages to practice. (Even though those things will be as good as forgotten when he finally comes home.) He's taking the train back and you text him every five minutes because he's probably bored, he must be bored, you would be, trapped on a train for hours all alone. (It's not because you're bored and lonely. Definitely not because of that.) You tell him all the crazy things your roommates have been up to since he left, you tell him about the movies you've been watching late at night, you ask him about his family and his friends, and he indulges you, answers your stupid texts with emojis and aegyo-riddled spelling. 

He told you he'd take a cab back to the dorm, but you decide to pick him up instead, wait next to the car so he doesn't miss you when he comes out of the station. You're a little unsure of how he'll react, but you don't really care and the look on his face when he arrives tells you that he'd been expecting you. "At least pretend that you're surprised," you tell him as he walks closer to you, sets his bags on the ground, shoves his hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, rests them on top of yours. "Why are you so cold?" you ask, rotating your hands to link your fingers between his. "My train got in early, so I've been waiting." 

"You waited? You were that sure I'd come?" He doesn't answer you, just looks up into your eyes, his face lit up with endlessly misplaced affection for you. "I know you better than you think," he reminds you, and it's not that you've forgotten, it's just that you were hoping he was wrong. "Did you eat on the train?" He shakes his head. "Are you hungry?" you ask, nod toward the passenger window so he notices the box of fried chicken you picked up on the way. "You really did miss me," he says with a grin, "you thought of everything."

"Sorry I wasn't here earlier, I just wanted it to be a surprise," you mutter softly. "You weren't late. Besides, I'm really good at waiting for you." He doesn't mean to make you feel guilty, you know he doesn't, but he's been waiting for you to catch up to him for a long time now and you still aren't there yet. "Ready to go?" He nods, puts his bags into the trunk and shuts it carefully, climbs into the passenger seat and starts to eat. "This car is going to smell like chicken for a week," he states, his mouth full. "Probably," you reply, but you're distracted and he knows it, he probably even knows why. "Just say it already." You clear your throat. "Say what?" 

"Whatever you've been waiting to ask me." You take a deep breath, close your eyes briefly, wonder why you feel so nervous. "Did you... miss me?" He smirks. "Want to pull over and find out?" You laugh, nervousness dissipating. "I'll take that as a yes." He smiles. "As you should," he confirms, shoveling more food into his mouth. 

Things are awkward by the time you get back to the dorm, lost time and spoken promises choking the air. He lugs his suitcase to his room and you grab a beer before you head to yours. You're not sure how to approach this situation, so you decide to let him figure it out this time. (There's no telling where you'd be if he was more willing to make the first move.)

You're working on your laptop when he walks through the door, closes it behind him, flops down on the foot of your bed. "You okay?" you ask, even though you know he wouldn't be here if nothing was wrong, he doesn't come to you without a reason, without an excuse. "My shoulders are killing me." Ah. Of course. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?" you tease. "Five minutes, I just want a five minute massage." You sigh loudly, tell him to sit up so you can access his shoulders. You were sure he was teasing you, you thought this was some kind of plan to get you to want him, because he still seems to think he needs a plan, so you're quite surprised to find that his shoulders are twisted and knotted more than you thought possible. 

"This is actually really bad, you should get a professional massage." He shakes his head. "I don't have time for that right now, so you'll have to do." You return to trying to work knots from his muscles. "You do realize that if you would take a break once in a while you could get a massage and you wouldn't need one as badly?" You can't see his eyes from this angle, but you know he's rolling them wildly. "What would I even do with all of that extra time?" he jokes. "I have a couple of ideas." 

"I'm sure you do," he mutters sarcastically and you're instantly annoyed, you stop the massage, take your hands away. "Don't stop," he whines, "why did you stop? I'm sorry." You sigh, roll your own eyes. "I meant you could use that time to take care of yourself. You could get a few more hours of sleep or eat actual meals or get a massage when you need one."

"I don't have to take care of myself. I have you to do that for me," he says confidently. "What about when I'm not around anymore?" He turns around, giving up on getting a massage for now. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asks. "I mean I'm not always going to be here to take care of you so you should start doing it yourself." He looks confused and you're not sure why you're picking this moment to bring it up, but he can't just expect you to be there whenever he needs you. (You don't want to admit to yourself that he has plenty of other people to take care of him.)

"If you don't want to, you don't have to. I'll be fine." Your heart drops. "You'll be fine without me?" That shouldn't hurt, why does it hurt? "I'll take care of myself when I need to," he corrects you. "You can get all this tension out of your muscles by yourself?" He smiles softly. "No, that's why I asked you to do it." Right. He did. You haven't seen him in days, so why are you trying to start a fight over nothing? "Turn around," you whisper and he rolls his eyes again, but he follows your instructions. You focus on working knots from his muscles, you try not to turn everything into an argument, you don't actually mind taking care of him, so you do. 

After a few more minutes, you find a particularly tender muscle, or you assume it must be because he lets out a rather embarrassing noise. You can't see his face, but you know he's blushing and you shouldn't find it cute, but it's not like it's your fault because he's the one who's always being cute. "Is there anything else you need from me?" you tease. "No," he answers shortly, turning around so you can't try that same spot again. "You sure? Because I am more than willing to take care of that for you too. In fact—"

"I'm fine. Besides, everyone's still here, we can't," he says. "Thanks to your inability to be quiet, they probably think we've been hooking up this whole time anyway, let's just prove them right." He blushes again and it's just as cute as you remembered. He rests his arms around your shoulders, leans in and presses his forehead against yours. "Thank you," he whispers. "For what?" 

"For taking care of me even though it's not easy," he replies softly. "It's my job," you tell him, but that's not the reason you work so hard to make sure he's eating and sleeping and safe. He knows that, he must know, right? He must. "I'm still grateful." You sigh. "Have you always been this easily impressed?" He nods before shutting his eyes and you lean in to kiss him softly because he's too close to ignore and he's too thankful for your often failed attempts to care for him and he's too nice for his own good sometimes.  "I bet your parents were happy to see you," you say because you can feel yourself getting carried away and you know he's not ready for that right now. "I guess. My dad was working a lot and my mom... really wants me to get a girlfriend." 

"She doesn't know?" you ask, kind of surprised even though you know you shouldn't be. He shrugs and drops his arms away from you, rests his hands in his lap and stares at them solemnly. "She knows, I've never said it, but... she just doesn't acknowledge it and my dad... wouldn't acknowledge me if he did." You don't really know what to say to that, because you still don't know exactly what this all means and you don't have to worry about telling your family anything, and you're having a hard enough time figuring out what to tell him. "She keeps trying to get her friends to set me up with their daughters. It's... it's just what moms do."

"What did you tell her?" you say. "That I'm too busy." Well, it's not a lie. "You're young. It'll all work out." It's a cop-out, it's not a guarantee, it doesn't help, but he smiles at you anyway. "I'm not going back, if you were still wondering," he says softly. "Back home?" He shakes his head. "It's not home, not anymore, not ev—" he stops abruptly. "Home is..." he trails off, but you know what he's thinking. Home is here, home is with the band, home is with you, and you're trying not to be flattered, but you're starting to think he seems a bit like home to you too. "I'm happy to be home," he finishes after a moment. "I don't want you to stay because of me. If you want to go, you should." He smiles at your attempt to be reasonable. "I'm staying because of me. End of discussion."

(You missed him and he knows you missed him and you're thinking of ways to prove you missed him and you are completely, unequivocally, absolutely screwed.)


End file.
